The Auction

Harry Potter is dead. He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him. We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone.

The battle is won. You have lost half of your fighters. My Death Eaters outnumber you, and the Boy Who Lived is finished. There must be no more war. Anyone who continues to resist, man, woman or child, will be slaughtered, as will every member of their family. Come out of the castle now, kneel before me, and you shall be spared. Your parents and children, your brothers and sisters will live and be forgiven, and you will join me in the new world we shall build together.

Hermione fell to her knees.

Harry Potter is dead.

She was cold. There was blood on her face, stiffening her skin. She didn't remember if it was hers. There was dirt beneath her nails and bile in her throat.

She heard Ron speaking to her, some nonsense. Something about continuing to fight.

If Harry was dead…

She'd had nightmares about this moment for the past seven years. About what she would have to do next. She'd run through the chain of command. First McGonagall. When McGonagall fell, then Kingsley. Then Remus. But behind them all, she and Ron would need to be the new faces of the revolution.

Your hero is gone.

She staggered to her feet. Ron helped her up.

She shouldn't have kissed him. She shouldn't have pretended there was normalcy in her life. The world was ending.

McGonagall screamed. Hermione turned toward the entrance to the castle, and saw Hagrid carrying a body.

He looked so small, his hair still sticking out in all directions.

She felt a yell from her own lips as Ginny ran forward, screaming his name.

She watched Ginny's face, wondering at the feeling of seeing your love lying dead before you. And her eyes turned to the faces of the approaching Death Eaters, searching…

A blond head moved quickly amongst them. Hermione's heart pounded, following the figure. The blond slid through the ranks, until finally breaking away and heading to a side entry. It was Narcissa Malfoy. Hermione looked around and found all eyes on Hagrid laying Harry's body down at Voldemort's feet.

No one saw the willowy woman dart away through the castle. No one but Hermione.

She turned. Ron held onto Ginny, tears streaming down his face. McGonagall stood tall, wand at the ready. The remaining Weasleys were behind her. Kingsley's eyes roved over the Death Eaters, counting, it seemed.

If Narcissa Malfoy was planning something, she needed to be followed. Hermione couldn't let her get away.

Voldemort was still gloating, preaching to his gathered crowd. She slipped to her left behind several students, creeping toward the stone wall. One last look at Harry's body. She looked to Ron and Ginny, preparing to fight.

Just as she was about to make a break for it down the hall, Neville ran forward. Voldemort stunned him backward with a bang.

All attention on Neville, and Hermione made her escape.

She tucked herself back into the crowd, tracking the silky blonde hair as it swayed through the Death Eaters to the side door. Hermione watched the door close behind Narcissa.

Screaming from behind her. She hated that she could identify the sound of Neville's crying. Her own memories wrapping around the familiar rhythm of Bellatrix's cackle.

Hermione slipped into the empty Entrance Hall, and looked into the void of white sheets in the Great Hall. Madame Pomfrey looked up at her, the only living soul amongst the bodies.

"What's happening out there, Granger?" Her voice shook.

"Harry is dead." She heard her voice leave her lips.

Pomfrey paled.

"I believe we are about to fight," she continued. She watched as the mediwitch's lips shivered.

Hermione blinked. And turned around, walking in the direction Narcissa Malfoy had slipped inside.

It must be shock. She let her mind turn this over—Harry was dead, and she was chasing Narcissa Malfoy around the empty castle.

Hermione turned down an empty corridor, rubble pushed into the corners. She'd never seen the castle this ghostly.

Dead.

Voices down a side hall. Hermione pressed herself against the wall, cold stones against her back, and peeked around the corner.

Two blond heads.

She snapped back, her skull hitting the wall behind her in her haste to hide. She pulled her eyes tight and listened through the pounding in her head.

"...time to go. We'll meet your father... to France with ..." Narcissa's quick whispering floated short phrases to her.

"I'm not leaving." Draco's voice was strong.

A soft warmth intruded Hermione's panic as she realized that Narcissa Malfoy had no master plan. She was simply risking her life to look for her son.

"Where are you going?"

"You didn't see her in the courtyard?"

"I was looking for you." Heavy footfalls. "Did you hear me?" Narcissa asked. "Potter is dead."

"Yes, I heard you." Draco's voice was closer. He was coming her way. Hermione darted back the way she came, finding a small broom closet to duck into.

She couldn't hear much more of what the Malfoys said over the sound of her heartbeat. Draco's quick legs carried him past her door, Narcissa right on his heels. Hermione peeked out of the closet, watching him walk away.

Things were about to get exponentially more difficult. She would have to return to the Entrance Hall now. She would have to take stock of who had survived while she'd run after the Malfoys, pretending it was for the cause. She would have to comfort Ginny and Ron, and attempt to let them comfort her – that is, if she could find them.

What if she'd missed it? Missed it all. What if she returned to the Entrance Hall and the bodies of her friends lay there, waiting for her to join them.

Maybe she didn't return. She could meet up with the students who had been forced from the school before all of this began. Try to get as much information as possible, and if they were all that was left, she would have to organize them. And if, miraculously, some of her friends survived what was happening, they'd meet somewhere in the middle.

She stared down the hallway Draco Malfoy had disappeared, heading back toward the courtyard probably, looking for whoever had made him disobey not only his mother, but also his Dark Lord. She pressed her lips together.

He'd spared her at Malfoy Manor, spared all three of them. Of course he'd recognized them. Just as she could pick him out of a crowd of hundreds, she knew he could do the same. She had her hair and her "snotty" posture.

She knew the length of his strides. How stunned she'd been in fifth year when he had grown, almost as tall as Snape. It was like memorizing him again.

She knew the shade of his blond, of course. A beacon in darkness, but after seeing him with his parents, at the Quidditch World Cup and a handful of other times, she could choose his colors from between the three of them. He'd gotten the exact shade of blond from Narcissa, but the quality of Lucius's.

The quirk of his eyebrow, just before he delivered a fatal, witty blow was written across her veins. The slant of his lips before he smirked haunted a dark corner of her mind. The lifeless quality in his eyes, only recently developed, was sketched into her subconscious. Like he didn't have a soul. At least not one she was allowed to see.

And then only a handful of smiles. True smiles. Opening packages from his mother at the breakfast table. A truly divine Quidditch play. Something Blaise Zabini whispered into his ear during Potions class. She felt like it had been years since she'd seen one of those.

For her own sake, she hoped that he and his family would run to France. If she found his boxy shoulders beneath Death Eater robes, casting curses against her and her army, she wasn't sure if she would be able to—

"Stupefy!"

And her final thought, before crumpling to the familiar stones of her old school, was that she should have known caring for him would end here. Distracted, disarmed, and destroyed.

Hermione woke to the sound of crying.

Her eyes snapped open, and it was like her heart turned on, fluttering viciously in her chest. Her lungs grabbed for the stale air, tasting fear on the back of her tongue.

There were bodies all around her. The sounds of sniffling and crying. A warm light kept the room from total darkness. A cold marble floor beneath her she almost recognized.

"Hermione!"

She looked up. The room was moving. And she realized the bodies around her weren't soulless. The entire room — fifty people began crawling to her. Her lungs cramped, and she pressed back into the wall she woke up against.

"Hermione," said a familiar voice. She turned and Ginny was there, climbing over the people, grabbing her shoulders, tucking her into her chest, and saying, "You're awake."

Hermione looked past her red curls. The room was full of familiar faces. She could see Luna and Parvati. The bodies that had slithered to her were her friends, eager to hold her, not to attack.

Ginny pulled back, her hands on her Hermione's face. "Where did you go? Where were you captured?"

Captured. It came down to that word. Hermione opened her lips, cracking skin, and coughed at the sandpaper feeling in her throat.

"Water!" Ginny called. Four or five girls scrambled. "Are you hungry?" Ginny asked.

Hermione frowned. Food? Water?

A paper water cup forced its way to her lips. Hermione sipped, and looked up to thank the person there. It was Cho Chang.

Everyone was alive. Had they surrendered? Where were Ron and Neville? She blinked.

Only girls. Young girls. She looked at each of their faces. When her eyes landed on Luna, the blonde girl smiled gently and said, "They're keeping us separate."

"Separate and unharmed?" Hermione rasped. A plate of fruit passed over heads and appeared in front of her face. "And fed?"

"It's not poisoned. We've all been eating," Ginny supplied. Hermione just sipped her water.

"How long have we been here?" she asked.

"Four days," several voices chorused.

"You arrived yesterday."

Hermione snapped her head to look at Ginny. She scanned herself. No injuries. But there was something on her arm.

C. Yaxley. A tattoo of sorts. Magical. It was his signature.

She felt the blood drain from her head.

"That's who captured you." Parvati nodded at the tattoo. Hermione's eyes drifted down to Parvati's arm and saw W. Macnair.

She swallowed. "Is that who owns us now?"

Ginny pursed her lips and several girls looked away. "We're not sure," Ginny said. "They haven't said much to us, just kept us fed and kept bringing girls in." She took deep breath. "It's possible that—"

"I've already told you stupid chits," came a sour voice from the corner. Hermione craned her neck, and found the one body that had not clambered to greet her when she woke. Sitting against the corner wall, knees to her chest in a lazy way, not a hair out of place.

Pansy Parkinson glanced over at them all. Hermione shivered at the intense eyes boring directly into her.

"It's for the Auction."

Ginny rolled her eyes.

Hermione couldn't look away from Pansy. Couldn't understand her presence. There were other pure-bloods here, but they were blood traitors.

Why keep them all alive? The room spun as Hermione calculated the possibilities, all boiling down to only a few likely scenarios that made her ribs cave in, crunching and gnawing at her lungs.

She drew in a rattling breath. "The Auction?"

Ginny glared at Pansy before stepping in front of her, blocking her from view. "You need to eat." She started pulling fruit together for her, peeling a banana. "Where were you captured, Hermione? I didn't see you at the battle in the courtyard."

What did they need a room full of young girls for? Where were the boys?

"Ron—" she croaked.

"Hermione." Ginny's voice was firm. "Tell me where you were captured."

"I— I was in the castle. I thought I saw..." She drifted, not sure what she should discuss with Pansy Parkinson there. "... someone worth following. But I got stunned in the back."

"Did you see anyone? Or anything useful?" Cho asked.

Hermione looked over at Pansy. Would she care to know that she'd seen Draco? Was she worried about him at all? Hermione wondered whose name was tattooed on her arm.

"No one on our side, no."

"And then where were you taken?" Hannah Abbott asked.

"Here?" Hermione supplied. "I guess."

A collective gasp.

"You've been unconscious? Or you don't remember?"

"You haven't had water in four days?"

"Where were they keeping you?"

"We need to check her body—"

"Yaxley. I wouldn't put it past him—"

"Stop." Hermione nearly shouted it. The room went quiet. A few girls who were gathering water cups and spare pieces of bread turned to look at her. She steadied her voice and said, "I don't remember anything after I got stunned."

"Hermione," Ginny said carefully, eyes wide and searching. "We should check you out. See if you have any markings. See if you feel anything... between your legs."

Hermione looked at the fifty or so girls around her. She could only watch as they scanned her intently, already searching her skin for markings. All but Parvati, whose eyes had drifted away, looking at the marble floors as if she would give Hermione privacy. As if she already knew how intrusive this was.

Hermione's eyes drifted back to Macnair's signature on her arm.

"There's no need," Pansy scoffed. Heads turned to glare. Pansy kept her stare in front of her, bored. "She's too valuable. No one would touch her."

Ginny looked like she was actively biting her tongue to keep from mouthing back at her.

"Besides," Pansy said, twisting her head to smirk. "You're a virgin, aren't you, Granger?"

Hermione felt a stab to her chest as half the girls turned to look at her with eager eyes and the other half started cursing at Pansy.

"What?" Pansy laughed. "I'm just saying it would be a waste of 5,000 Galleons. No need to check her out."

"Shut up about that damn Auction, Pansy," Ginny snarled. "No one believes you—"

"What Auction?" Hermione looked to the Slytherin girl. She supposed houses didn't matter much anymore, did they? "What are you talking about?"

Pansy smiled. "Just what it sounds like, Granger. The pure-blood elite are going to put a price tag on us, strut us about, and bid." She bit her lip, lifting a joyful brow. "And if you've been saving yourself for Weasley all these years, they'll give Yaxley another 5,000."

The smell of the banana and the oranges… ripe as the bodies sweating nervously around her. She could taste it all in the back of her throat. Hermione was going to be sick.

"And how did you find yourself on the wrong side of all this, Pansy?" she asked.

Pansy looked away. "Wrong place, wrong time."

"Don't listen to her," Ginny said. "Let's just check you out right quick. Just me and Luna, okay?"

Hermione nodded, already wishing she was asleep again. The girls gave them some space, Parvati and Cho creating a bit of privacy around them.

"Is this what you were wearing during the Battle?" Ginny asked. Hermione looked down at herself. Same clothes, but they were clean. Scourgified.

"Er, yes."

"Good."

They unzipped her jacket, checking her neck and shoulders before helping her take off her shirt. When they confirmed she had no markings on her back, Hermione finally asked, "Where's Ron?"

Ginny's eyes looked to her, then away. "He was alive, last I saw. Same with Neville. Kingsley and McGonagall were killed in the courtyard."

Hermione thought maybe she should have gasped. Should have started crying.

"Pansy thinks there are males to be Auctioned too, so maybe Ron and Neville will be there," Luna whispered melodically.

"There is no Auction, Luna." Ginny hissed through her teeth. "It's just Parkinson playing games with us." She ran her fingers across Hermione's scalp, pressing for injuries.

"I don't know," Luna said. "Draco mentioned it to me, too."

Hermione looked at her, and the fingers in her hair stopped.

"An Auction?" Ginny said.

"Draco?" Hermione asked.

"Mm-hmm." Luna rolled up Hermione's jeans, looking at her ankles and calves. "When I was staying in his dungeons." She mentioned it like it was a holiday she'd taken last year. "He would come and talk to me. Tell me what was going on at school. And a few days before I left —before you and Harry and Ron came, Hermione — he told me there might be something like this."

"What did he say?"

"Just that should I survive the war, and should the Dark Lord win, I should try to kill myself if I couldn't escape." Luna rolled Hermione's pant legs down.

Cho Chang turned around, eyes wide on Luna.

"Because of an Auction?" Ginny asked.

"Something like that," Luna shrugged. "All he said was that he wouldn't be able to buy me. He had to save for someone else."

Hermione swallowed. Draco Malfoy being kind – compassionate. She'd always thought she was the only one who'd seen it. She'd heard a bit from Harry last year, about Myrtle in the girls' bathroom just before he'd sliced him open.

Hermione looked across the room again. "Pansy," she said. Cho turned to look at Pansy, and Ginny's eyes followed. Hermione watched the dark haired girl close her eyes and lean back against the wall in her solitary corner, secluded away from everyone else. "He knew Pansy would end up here. Months ago."

Hermione turned to Ginny and Luna. "Whose names are on your arms?"

Luna pulled up her sleeve, and Ginny turned her wrist. Both of them had the same signature.

Antonin Dolohov.

A loud bang from outside the room. All fifty girls jumped, some standing, some shrinking back.

Another bang, this one Hermione recognized as doors opening.

"It could just be food. Or another girl dropped off," Ginny whispered. Hermione stood, leaning heavily against the wall, regretting her empty stomach.

A lock clicked, and a masked Death Eater entered the room. He was without food and without a new girl.

"Medical examinations today."

It was Yaxley. She looked down at her arm, expecting... something. A tingle or burn? Or the letters glittering when he was near. Nothing.

"Five at a time," he said. "Parkinson, Abbott, Clearwater, Forbes, and Harding. Follow me."

No one moved.

"Now," Yaxley said.

Penelope Clearwater was the first to separate herself and move to the front. Pansy stood and followed. The five exited the room. Yaxley looked around, promising pain behind the mask, and closed the door as he left.

An hour later, they were returned. The gash across Hannah's head had been healed. And they smelled better.

He took Ginny this time, and four others. The rest gathered around the five that returned and hounded them for answers.

"Where are we?" Hermione asked Hannah as Penelope answered questions about the showers and the medical exam.

"I think the Ministry."

The black marble floors. Of course.

When Ginny came back, she pulled a group to the corner, taking Hermione and Luna. She explained the hallways, the showers. The number of Death Eaters guarding them.

"Is anyone good with wandless magic?" Ginny looked around. A few of the older girls nodded. "Whoever is in Hermione's group should try to overpower the guards before reaching the showers. This may be our only chance. They take you left around two corners, and then there is a door at the end of the hall before they take you right and into the showers." Ginny drew imaginary lines on the wall for a visual aid, and Hermione was reminded of Ron, and the way he strategized Wizard's Chess. "I think I've been in these halls before with my father. I think those are the main doors."

"They lead to the courtrooms," a black-haired girl said. "My father was on the Wizengamot. I think I know where we are."

Ginny nodded. "Yaxley and another guard led us to the showers. I'm thinking Levicorpus and Expelliarmus." The girls agreed. The others who had not yet gone for exams had gathered too. "Just get Hermione a wand. Don't come back for us."

More than thirty heads nodded.

"What?" Hermione frowned. "No, we'll come back, get you all out, and then all fifty of us will storm through that door—"

"Don't be an idiot, Granger," Pansy said from her corner.

Ginny pressed her lips together. "Hermione, you have to get through that door as quickly and silently as possible. The mediwitches will be waiting on the next group."

"Why would five witches with a maximum of two wands be better chances than fifty?" she argued. "We're ten floors deep underground."

"Fifty unarmed witches fitting in the lifts is better?" Pansy sneered.

The bang of the doors unlocking again. The girls scattered, looking innocent.

Yaxley returned the five freshly bathed girls.

"Baxter, Lovegood, Patil, Mortensen, and Granger."

She stood. And wondered for the first time where the other Patil was.

Parvati moved quickly to be at the front of the line of girls, giving Hermione a nod. Luna stood behind her. The other girls filed in and Hermione stood at the back. Yaxley led them out, holding the door to lock it. Another Death Eater waited in the hallway, and gestured for Parvati to follow. Hermione eyed Yaxley as he locked the door and turned to bring up the rear.

Her heart thudded a dull beat.

They turned left.

She stared at the back of Baxter's head. She didn't know her. As her arm swung back she could just make out the word Nott.

They turned left again. A long hallway with a door at the end. Midway was a door on the right, which according to Ginny would lead to the showers. A hallway sprouting to the left to take them to the medical exam room.

She focused in on the hum of magic in her blood. And she spun and reached out, focusing on the spell, and pushed Yaxley through the air.

She opened her eyes when she heard a shout. Yaxley's body hung by his ankle. Baxter joined her, hands outstretched. Their magic synced, a force of wind and desperation. Yaxley's wand flew from his hand. Her eyes followed, heart hammering. Without the grace and delicacy of wandwork on the Expelliarmus, the stick just zoomed across the hall.

A commotion from behind them, possibly the other three attacking the first Death Eater, and she felt the power slipping from her fingers, distractions everywhere and her mind spinning circles. Yaxley dropped, falling in a heap.

Get the wand. Get the wand.

A scream behind her.

She spun, and Parvati was on the floor, writhing.

The Death Eater's mask had slipped off in the attack. It was Dolohov. His wand trained on Parvati in what must be the Cruciatus Curse. Hermione gasped for air, searching for the wand as Luna jumped on his back. He swatted her away with his wand, her little body flying backward.

Hermione was useless in a duel without a wand. Her eyes darted, searching. There, in the corner that lead to the exam room: Yaxley's wand. She dove for it, as a fresh round of screams from Parvati poured into the hallway. Her fingers plucked it from the ground.

"STOP!"

She spun. Yaxley was up. He had a knife at Baxter's neck, poking into the flesh. Parvati was silent behind her, and she chanced a look. Dolohov pulled her up by the scalp, holding her to his chest as a shield, wand trained on Hermione.

Her heartbeat in her fingertips. Sweat dripping down her spine.

"Drop the wand," Yaxley hissed.

Hermione turned to hold defense against Dolohov. Luna's body on the ground behind him, slowly coming back to consciousness. The fifth girl was out cold.

A whimper, gurgling.

She turned, and Yaxley's blade had pulled across Baxter's throat. Blood sprayed as her fingers scrambled to staunch its flow. Hermione's jaw dropped and a small scream popped through her lips, her skin buzzing.

Yaxley grinned at her. "Now, if only I had my wand to heal her."

Baxter fell to her knees, holding the slice across her neck. Hermione met her eyes as they dimmed.

Hermione shot a hex at Yaxley, now without a human shield. He jumped out of the way just in time, but a Disarming Spell from Dolohov hit the wall behind her head.

"Hermione! Run!" Parvati screamed.

She turned back and ran down the hallway toward the exam rooms. Heavy footfalls thudded behind her, and she turned and shot curses over her shoulder. A head poked out of a brightly lit room, a mediwitch hat on. Hermione sprinted past, turning right at the end of the hall. It was at least the same direction as the main door they had wanted to exit through. She heard the Death Eaters follow her around the corner, and she blasted a door open.

Supply cupboard.

She kept running, heading toward the end of the hall. It was a maze. She had no idea anymore which way was out. Curses and hexes smashed through the corners she wound around.

She skidded down a hall to her left. And it was empty. A dead end. No doors to disappear into.

She spun on her heel just as Yaxley slid into the hall, Dolohov behind him.

"Crucio!"

She jumped out of the way of Dolohov's curse.

"Expelliarmus!" she bellowed. He blocked her.

She needed to disarm Dolohov first. Then focus on Yaxley.

"I thought she was supposed to be clever," Dolohov hissed. "The Mudblood's got herself backed into a corner." He smiled, lips peeling away from yellow teeth. "Flipendo!"

She let the jet graze her ear so she could send a Stupefy. He blocked, and she aimed at the wall next to him.

"Aguamenti!"

A solid stream of water hit the marble wall, bouncing and spraying against his face, into his eyes and ears. Dolohov stumbled and just when Hermione had a clear shot to disarm him, a small body with wild blonde curls crashed into Yaxley, disappearing them both around the corner.

Luna.

"Expelliarmus!" she cast, but the momentary distraction was enough time for Dolohov to block her.

Dolohov used her technique against her, and ricocheted a spell off the wall behind her. It struck her right between the shoulder blades, and she screamed as what felt like small razor blade cuts spread across her skin, dancing down her back and curving around her ribs.

Mustering something within she howled a jinx at him before swiping her wand to end the nicking spell on her back.

A scream from around the corner that she recognized as Luna. And then Parvati's dark figure sprinted past Hermione's hallway, raven hair flowing behind her, yelling over the sound of Luna's whimpers.

Dolohov had recovered. He pulled himself up, slashing his wand through the air, and something cracked inside of her as Luna screamed again, voice breaking and fluttering over Parvati's shouting.

"Avada Kedavra."

It left her lips like a kiss. A green jet of light pouring from the wand in her hand, but stopping short, just a foot before Dolohov's tense face.

They stared at each other, listening to their breath and the grunting from the hallway. Neither she nor Dolohov had expected her to cast it.

And that's why she hadn't meant it.

She summoned the image of Harry in Hagrid's arms. Ron's face as he looked upon Fred for the last time, the sound of her mother calling her downstairs, Sirius's warm brown eyes, and she aimed her wand and opened her lips.

Yaxley appeared in the hallway, dragging Luna by the neck. He propped her up in front of him, just like with the Baxter girl. Who was now gone.

Hermione kept the wand on Dolohov, and watched Luna lift her head and meet her eyes. Blood dripped over her left brow, and her lip was swollen. A red stain was spreading between her ribs.

"Let's try this again," Yaxley panted against Luna's hair. "I already owe Ted Nott and Walden Macnair a few thousand Galleons for your little stunt, Miss Granger." He grinned. "Antonin won't mind this one going to waste, I'm sure."

Hermione watched Luna's ribs drag in air, thinking.

Baxter was dead, and now he was saying Parvati was too. The fifth girl possibly dead. Luna here, about to die. Fifty unarmed girls locked in a room several hallways back.

Harry wasn't here. Or McGonagall or Kingsley. Or Lupin. Or Dumbledore.

"Drop the wand, Miss Granger." Yaxley raised his bloody knife to Luna's chin.

She could kill them both. It may take some fighting but she could do it. And grab up Dolohov's wand and go back for the girls. Or push through the halls without them, looking for an exit.

And then what? Who was left?

"Miss Granger?"

She could conjure that hate. Take out Dolohov. But not before Yaxley's knife ended Luna.

She could kill Dolohov, then Yaxley as Luna's body dropped.

And then she'd be alone.

"It's okay, Hermione."

She looked back to Luna. The girl smiled and there was blood on her teeth. She nodded her head, like telling her she could step in front of her at the drinking fountain. The movement pushed the blade into her skin.

"It's okay," Luna said. "Don't think of me. I don't mind." Yaxley squeezed her, and the blade cut her just enough. "Remember? He said it would be better this way."

Draco.

Draco told her it would be better to die.

But despite her attachments, she still had no reason to trust him over her instincts. And her instincts started to scream as the blade moved across Luna's throat.

Hermione dropped to her knees, skidded the wand down the stones, and moved her hands to her head.

She watched as Yaxley scooped up his wand, as Luna's hands scrambled for her throat. Dolohov moved toward Hermione, and Yaxley turned his wand on Luna's neck, knitting the skin back together.

"Petrificus Totalus," from Dolohov.

Her arms snapped to her sides, and her body lengthened, bringing her face-first along the stone floor, smashing her nose. Dolohov kicked her over. He leaned over her, smiled, and spit on her face.

"You're not so smart after all, are you, you little swot?" Dolohov aimed his wand at her head. "Feisty though. I'll enjoy that once you're mine."

He reached down, grabbed a fist full of her hair, and dragged her frozen body down the stones.

So far, she was quite pleased with Professor Slughorn. All in all, he was a much friendlier presence than their previous Potions instructor.

He’d welcomed them into the classroom, and she and her classmates had gravitated towards four cauldrons bubbling in the center of the room. Polyjuice was clearly boiling in one. She peered into another and found Veritaserum, without a doubt. She scrunched her nose in disapproval that he would allow such dangerous potions within clear reach of students .

She inched closer as Slughorn gave Harry and Ron spare copies of the textbook, standing on her tiptoes to inspect the swirling silver potion in the cauldron closest to her.

She gasped. Amortentia.

Slughorn asked for each of the potions to be identified, and her hand rocketed into the air every time.

"It's the most powerful love potion in the world!" she said, bouncing on her toes when Slughorn asked her.

"Quite right! You recognized it, I suppose, by its distinctive mother-of-pearl sheen?"

She nodded. "And the steam rising in characteristic spirals. And it's supposed to smell differently to each of us, according to what attracts us, and I can smell freshly mown grass and new parchment and — "

Honey. Honey dripping into a teacup.

Her jaw snapped shut.

It was innocuous, really. Just honey. Her eyes drifted to a pale blond, wondering if he would have even associated her almost-confession with his morning tea.

Draco was staring past her, glaring at Ron.

No. He probably wasn’t paying an ounce of attention to her.

Never in the way she wanted.

~*~

They put her in a room all by herself. It could have been an old meeting room. Large enough for a table and twelve chairs. It was empty now. The shadows of where portraits used to hang on the walls, rectangles of unblemished wallpaper.

They left her petrified. Face up. It was a blessing actually. She couldn't hyperventilate when all she could physically do was breathe.

Luna had been able to walk by herself when they locked the door, stumbling along behind Yaxley. She gave Hermione a small smile as the door closed, and Hermione spent the first ten minutes of her isolation trying to decipher it.

Was it a thank you? Was it meant to say, it's alright that you didn't listen to me?

Hermione stared at the ceiling, waiting for what came next.

So, Pansy was right. An Auction of sorts. Yaxley mentioned the cost of the bodies he'd killed, and Dolohov was under the impression that the signature on her arm would change to his, probably with an exchange of Galleons.

It explained why Yaxley had bothered to heal Luna. They were more valuable alive.

How valuable, she wondered.

Pansy said 5,000 Galleons for virgins. That sounded like an awful lot for a one-time experience.

It took a while for Hermione to realize that the curse Dolohov hit her with was still bleeding. She’d stopped the spread of the razor blade nicks with her Finite Incatatem, but did not heal the skin. She lay there, feeling a slow seeping wetness across her back, cold in the marble room.

She tried not to mourn Parvati or the Baxter girl. She didn't know the fate of the fifth one. Just like how she tried not to mourn Harry or McGonagall. None of it had to be real yet. She just needed to survive the Ministry holding cells, and then take it a step at a time.

She remembered the plans she made as soon as Harry's body appeared in the courtyard. Leave the castle, find the younger students and anyone who hadn't joined the battle, and then hope to find everyone else. That felt like years ago. She could have done something similar if she had let Luna die. If she had found something dark inside of her, connected to that green light.

Harry had never fired a Killing Curse once, always content to disarm.

Harry was dead.

The thought crawled over her still skin like ivy. Harry was dead. He’d failed. And what chance would she have against Lord Voldemort, even if she could get free?

Harry had warred with himself: Hallows or Horcruxes – which was more important? Perhaps he’d chosen wrong?

She heard footsteps, loud clopping sounds of a man who wanted everyone to know he was coming.

They paused in front of her door. She stared at the tiles on the ceiling, waiting for the door handle to turn.

She counted to ten, breathing slowly. Then to twenty.

The footsteps moved down the hall, quieter as he left.

She knew Yaxley's quick pace, like a shark in a small pond, ready to dart, ready to swerve. Dolohov rested his weight on his heels, making him a clumsy runner. She didn't know Macnair. He wasn't at the Department of Mysteries, and her interactions with him were sparse.

Who else was involved in this? What other names were scrawled with ink across those girls' arms? Who was in charge of this Auction?

Lucius Malfoy's smug grin flashed in her mind. When the Snatchers grabbed them, they had been taken to Malfoy Manor. Luna had been kept there for months before that. Was Lucius Malfoy in charge of this prisoner project?

And what did that mean for Draco?

He hadn't identified them that night. Recognized them, certainly, but was reluctant. Not that Hermione remembered much. She'd been preoccupied with Bellatrix's blade.

Did they write Yaxley's name over her scar? She made to lift her arm to look, and remembered she was petrified.

Footsteps. And this time she did recognize Dolohov's heavy, flat feet.

The door crunched open, and she counted her heartbeats. Dolohov moved slowly into the room, crafty enough to stay out of her sightline as he walked to the other side of the conference table she lay on.

"I told them you were special," he muttered. "Said from the beginning you should be kept separate." He growled a laugh. "They're listening to me now though."

He stood somewhere near her feet, her eyes strained to find him. She counted five of her own quick exhales before he spoke again.

"Didn't know you had Wandless like that though. That'll be fixed soon."

Before she could ruminate over the possibilities of what he could mean, a light pressure appeared over her right ankle, freezing her brain.

A finger dragging up the inner seam of her jeans, over her calf.

Her throat contracted with nerves, and she felt herself drowning, choking.

"You Obliviated me. You remember?"

The ceiling blurred, and he reached her knee, passing it.

"I don't, of course." He chuckled. "I was told later about what happened. The Dark Lord had the whelp torture me for it."

Up the inside of her thigh, wedging between her two locked legs. And his chest and face came into focus, looking down at her from where he stood tall next to her shoulders.

"I'm thinking about returning the favor, Mudblood." His finger at the top of her thighs. "After the first time I fuck you, maybe I'll erase it, so every time will be the first time for you." His full hand slithered between her thighs, cupping her, pressing against her. "Warm already."

"I expect you'll be paying me for this, Dolohov?" another person asked. And Hermione had never known relief like the warm joy of hearing Yaxley's voice.

"Just getting a taste," Dolohov replied.

"Seeing as that's my name on her arm, I'd suggest you release her. I could decide not to sell her at all."

Dolohov removed his hand, stepping back and muttering. Yaxley moved into her sightline.

"Miss Granger," Yaxley hissed. "Lydia Baxter is dead. Parvati Patil is dead. Gwen Mortensen is still with the Healers." He leaned down on his elbows, bringing his face closer, adopting a conversational tone. "That was a very expensive coup you just staged. As I am your current Holder, I now have the great pleasure of paying for your sins." He nodded over his shoulder. " Ted Nott may waive the Baxter girl's fee for me. But I'm sure Macnair will not be as understanding.

"But I do find it interesting that the Lovegood girl is still alive," Yaxley said, voice catching at the end in a strange imitation of Lucius Malfoy. "I guess the others' lives were not as valuable to you."

Like Yaxley had timed it, a tear slipped from the corner of her left eye, sliding down toward her ear.

"Oh, don't cry, Miss Granger." He chuckled, and her skin shivered when he brushed his finger across her cheek to wipe the tear away. "No one else will be hurt due to your incompetence. You just need to behave until this Friday evening."

He whispered a Finite Incantatem and she gulped air like a vacuum, her lungs pressing into her ribs until they felt like they cracked. The muscles in her arms and legs shaking from fighting the petrifying curse. Her lip trembled.

"How does that sound, Miss Granger?" Yaxley whispered into her ear. She refused to turn to face him, still staring up at the ceiling like she was still petrified. "I need a verbal response. Or I'll need to just leave you here until Friday."

"Yes." She didn't recognize her voice.

"Wonderful." Yaxley stood tall and pointed his wand at her. "That's the last word I ever want to hear from you. Silencio."

She was grateful. Now she could scream.

~*~

Yaxley and Dolohov escorted her to the showers. She didn't know how long she'd been in the conference room on the table, but there was no one else in the showers when she arrived. The other girls from her group were gone by now.

What other girls. She chuckled darkly. Half of them were dead.

Yaxley left to prep the medical team, and once the door was closed, Dolohov leered at her again, letting his eyes slide down her body. He handed her a towel. She waited. Praying he would turn and leave her.

He gestured to the showers. Tile boxes without doors or curtains. She didn't remember the other girls talking about a lack of privacy during the showers. Just that they were too brief.

She looked back at Dolohov, then to the door, raising her brows.

"Can't leave you alone, love." He winked at her.

She swallowed. She looked to the shower, and then handed the towel back to him. She would choose not to. He didn't take it.

"Oh, you'll wash," he said. He stepped closer to her, and she lifted her chin. "Or I'll do it for you."

He lifted a hand to touch her, maybe her hair or her shoulder. She jumped away and moved to the shower, starting the spray.

She kicked off her trainers. Slid down the zipper on her hoodie. Peeled the jacket and jumper off. The razorblade spell he’d hit her with had sliced through her layers, leaving little nicks in all her clothing. She faced the spray, watching the steam rise, twisting like fire.

She popped the button on her jeans. Tugged down the zipper. She shucked her knickers and jeans together, stepping out of them quickly. Ripped her shirt over her head, tugging the dried blood off her back. Clicked open her bra.

She stepped under the water and imagined her shower at home in Hampstead. Her mother's shampoo on the corner of the tub. Her father's razor in the soap dish.

She pulled her hair over her shoulder, keeping her back towards the door. Stinging pricks against her back as the water hit the wounds. Opening her eyes to the tiles, she found a little bottle of wash on a ledge.

Her mother used to sing in the shower. And it smelled like raspberries.

The body wash in her palms, and she pushed it around her skin.

They had a dog when she was younger. And they always washed the dog in the tub, making a mess. The dog had run away or gotten lost when she was nine.

Smart dog.

"You cleaning everything?"

She was back in the Ministry showers, with Antonin Dolohov watching her under the water. The first man to see her naked.

She knew what he meant. How was she supposed to... with him here. Her shoulders were tight, up to her ears.

"Clean that pretty cunt, Granger, or I'll do it myself."

She closed her eyes again. And reached down between her legs to scrub quickly.

She wished the water was hotter. Burning.

She turned the tap, and stepped out, trying to keep her back to him still. She took the towel from the hook, and wrapped herself tight. She heard Dolohov walking toward her, and she concentrated on the floor.

Something was thrust in her face. A hospital gown. She frowned at it and took it from him.

"Don't have all day."

She pulled the gown on over the towel, and let it drop to the floor. Dolohov scourgified her clothing, charmed it to fold and jump into his hands, her knickers landing on top. He plucked them up, swung them around his finger, and smirked at her.

He led her down the hall, still dripping. She thought she maybe should try running again. A wandless shove, maybe disarm him.

Barefoot and wet. Silenced. Running through the Ministry in a hospital gown.

Hermione kept her eyes on the ground.

He brought her into the room she'd ran past before, the one the mediwitch had peeked out from.

An exam table and two mediwitches. He shoved her inside. Her heart beat fiercely, but she tried to remember that none of the others were worse for wear after their medical exams.

One of the women in white turned to greet them, and she paled as her eyes landed on Hermione.

"Come in," she squeaked.

Hermione shuffled toward the exam table, dripping still. The witch cast a drying charm on her, and Hermione nodded in thanks. The other witch blinked several times when she turned and saw Hermione. She was older with greying hair, a plump figure. She quickly returned to what she was doing.

"The full work-up. Detailed." Dolohov crossed his arms, standing in front of the door.

Hermione slid up onto the exam table, holding her gown closed.

"Any chance you're pregnant?" the younger witch asked.

Hermione swallowed and shook her head "no."

The mediwitch cast a diagnostic over her. Hermione read the results backwards, finding no fresh scaring or bruising, internal or external. There was something glowing red, like a blinking stoplight. The girl frowned, and moved to open the back of her gown. A soft exhale against Hermione’s neck as she saw the nicks across her skin. An incantation, and then they were healed.

The young witch picked up her left arm carefully and examined Bellatrix Lestrange's handiwork. She looked up at Hermione, making quick eye contact before looking away. She paused over a few of the scars she'd obtained in the past year on the run.

Remembering her question from earlier, Hermione checked her arm. Yaxley’s signature was placed just above her Mudblood scar. They had made sure the scar was still visible.

"When was the last time you ate?"

Hermione shook her head.

The witch blinked at her. "A lot of your nutrition levels are low. She should—” The girl looked quickly to Dolohov, then snapped her jaw shut. "My recommendation is that she eat more. Proteins especially."

Dolohov rolled his eyes. “Yes, you say that every time.” He stepped off the wall, and came closer to the table. "And the other spell?"

The older mediwitch frowned, and the younger one's eye twitched. She turned back to Hermione and said, "Lie back, please."

Hermione took a deep, silent breath, and scooted until she laid back. Staring at a ceiling again.

She tilted her head up to watch as the younger one muttered a spell that Hermione didn't recognize. A warm feeling, at the top of her head and at her toes, then scanning downward and upward. It was like a scan. The warm waves met in the middle of her, and low in her belly she felt a quick pressure.

And then her stomach glowed. Like a ball of light had pushed out of her bellybutton. She watched it, glowing so white, it looked blue.

A chuckle from the corner of the room, and Hermione turned to see Dolohov grinning at her.

"You better make this worth my money, Mudblood."

She scowled at him, and turned to see the plump mediwitch frown and then turn away to scribble something on a chart. The younger one scratched her face, hiding the way she wiped away a tear.

Hermione's throat closed. She wasn't sure what the spell meant, but she could take a guess.

An extra 5,000. Isn't that what Pansy said?

"Suppressants for this one, too."

The ball of light faded and vanished. The young witch sighed.

"Do you have a problem with that?" Dolohov sneered at her.

"No, sir."

“Give her two doses.”

The plump one turned over her shoulder, but said nothing.

“Two? Sir, that’s unnecessary—”

“Two,” he hissed.

Hermione sat up, watching the plump witch pour one vial into another, filling to the brim. She handed the younger one the potion. Hermione shook her head no.

"It's a temporary suppressant,” the girl whispered. “Should only last three days—”

"Don't talk to her. If there's a question or direction, talk to me," Dolohov said darkly.

The girl pressed her lips together and nodded.

Suppressant. Some kind of inhibitor for her magic? When had that been developed?

"You gonna take it, or do I need to pry your jaw open?" he asked her.

The young witch squeezed her arm when she handed it to her. Hermione looked at her with wide eyes.

"Three days," the girl said.

"What did I just tell you," Dolohov snarled.

Hermione looked to Dolohov, large and in the only doorway, wand drawn. The young witch bit her lip. The older witch kept her back to the room.

Three days. And then what?

Hermione swallowed it. Two large gulps. Minty.

As the girl took the bottle back from her, Dolohov said, "And the other. The spell." The girl's fingers shook.

"For her?" The young witch turned over her shoulder to stare wide-eyed at Dolohov.

He raised a brow. "She's a Mudblood, isn't she?"

"But..." The girl looked at her.

Hermione watched her struggle, unable to ask what was happening as they talked about her.

"Is there a problem?"

"Wouldn't that be... a huge waste, sir?"

The older witch didn't turn around but continued to write on her chart.

"Under what circumstances could you see us needing her to be fertile?"

A heavy rock dropped in her stomach. She looked down at her hands. They were sterilizing all the Muggleborns.

"She's supposed to be quite bright. Very talented. Those genes would—”

"She's dirty. Perform the spell," Dolohov said with finality.

A churning in her stomach. She didn't want children. Not like this. Not with one of them.

"I'd like to speak to Mr. Yaxley about this. He is her Holder and I think he—”

"Are you disobeying direct orders?" Dolohov advanced.

Hermione closed her eyes. She didn't want to bear Dolohov's children. She should be glad he was on the same page. But to be sterilized was so permanent. Like the future was set. Like there was no way to reverse anything about to happen to them.

"Yes, sir. I am."

Her eyes snapped open to see the young mediwitch standing between herself and Dolohov. The older woman turned, pressing her lips together.

Dolohov laughed. And then quickly, "Crucio."

Hermione flinched when the girl dropped. The room was too small for her screams.

"I'll do it." The other woman stepped forward, pulling her wand. Dolohov released the other girl, and she panted below Hermione's feet.

The older witch stepped over her partner, standing in front of Hermione with a firm expression. "Lie back."

Hermione didn't fight her. She needed to save her energy for battles that mattered. She couldn't use wandless magic for three days. She couldn't physically best anyone. And without either of those options, she couldn't outthink them either.

She leaned back, and watched as the mediwitch hovered her wand over Hermione's stomach, placing a hand on her waist to hold her to the table.

Hermione swallowed. The wand twisted over her left side, and a spell was muttered.

She thought of small fingers and toes. A boy with shaggy brown hair in her lap, pouting over a book.

Something wrenched inside of her. Severing her. Her legs jerked, throat clicking on a silent gasp of pain. She stared at the ceiling as the older witch moved to her right side.

Her fallopian tubes were being severed.

The wand tapped at her right hip as the older witch leaned over her, obstructing Dolohov from view. And she thought she could see a bright bow balanced on twisting curls.

The wand twisted again. A tear dripped out of her lashes.

And then the hand on Hermione's stomach pinched the flesh on her hip between two nails.

She jumped, legs spasming. If she had her voice she would have yelped. Hermione looked to the older witch, confused. What was that for?

The woman pulled away, smoothing her hand down Hermione's stomach and turned to Dolohov. "It's done."

But there was no internal cut. Not on the right side.

Dolohov grinned, and the older woman pulled the young girl off the floor. Dolohov held Hermione’s clean clothes out to her, barking at her to dress quickly. The mediwitches made notes on their papers, keeping their eyes down.

Hermione didn't even worry about Dolohov's eyes as she redressed. She watched the women.

Stepping in front of a Death Eater to give Hermione Granger a chance at a future. The older woman met her eyes as Dolohov hauled her out the door. He whispered something into her ear about mourning the mutts they would have had.

He returned her to the holding room, and Hermione didn’t even flinch as his hand passed over her backside. Her mind was spinning. The only weapon she had left.

“Hermione!”

The door clanged closed. And fifty girls came to their feet. Even Pansy looked on with curiosity.

Ginny pushed her way forward, holding her, touching her, asking her questions she couldn’t answer.

“Hermione?” Ginny prompted when she hadn’t spoken.

She raised her fingers to her throat and shook her head. She watched Ginny’s eyes flatten. Watched Cho frown at the ground. Watched a room full of girls realize Hermione Granger’s swotty voice had been taken away.

Luna stepped forward. “Are you hurt, Hermione?”

She looked at the small smile on Luna’s lips. She shook her head no.

She didn’t need them to know any more than that.

Had half of these girls been sterilized? Did the mediwitches spare others?

And what purpose did that serve if she was just going to be sold and raped? Why would the older witch save fifty percent of her chances?

A gasping from the corner. Several of them turned to see a young girl no more than fourteen starting to cry. Starting to hyperventilate. Penelope Clearwater came to her side, and wrapped her arms around her, demanding that she breathe.

“What… what are we— are we going to do?” the girl cried. “She couldn’t— She didn’t get out.”

Hermione took a slow inhale, looking away. She found Sally Fawcett in the crowd, silent tears streaming down her face.

Pansy closed her eyes, leaned her head back on the wall, and took a deep breath in.

Ginny spun around the room. “Hey. It’s— this isn’t the end. We have time.”

Someone else began to sniffle. A wail from the young girl in Penelope’s arms.

And Hermione realized they needed to know. She needed to tell them.

She looked around for something she could write with. Nothing sharp to carve. Nothing like chalk.

The only thing they had was fruit.

She moved to the basket. A huge bowl of grapes. It would take time, but it would do.

She pulled the bowl to the center of the room, and started plucking them off the vine.

She thought of the small mediwitch’s screams. The way she’d stepped in front of her before she’d dropped to the floor.

Hermione spelled it as best as she could.

The plump woman’s eyes — cold and distant even as she helped her. Not betraying anything. Her calculating gaze when she and Dolohov left the room.

Luna came to her side, standing next to her and watching.

She saw more feet come close to the grapes, waiting for her to be finished.

The vine was almost bare, and Hermione thought of Lydia Baxter, who she’d never met before today. She thought of Parvati and the way the dark-haired girl would copy her notes in Charms class.

She finished spelling. One grape left and she gave it a final period at the end. Like it was fact.

She stood, staring down, letting fifty girls swarm her to read what the Golden Girl had to say to them.

Not alone.

On a day she assumed was Thursday, they showered them again. She was taken first, alone. Dolohov watched her undress again, watched her under the spray. He scourgified her clothing and handed each item back to her, one at a time. Starting with her knickers.

He smiled and ran his fingers across the cotton as she stood in front of him, dripping in her towel.

"Cherish these moments, Mudblood," he said. "You won't need little knickers any longer after tomorrow."

She gave him no reaction. Unable to speak, she concentrated on becoming expressionless. She tugged the knickers on under the towel, and struggled the rest of the clothing on her still wet body.

When they returned her and took five girls, then five more, none of them complained about the lack of privacy in the showers. So, she assumed it was a special circumstance for her.

Word got around among the girls that the Auction would take place that Friday night. Enough whispers had been overheard to take a solid guess. Ginny began to pace around the room, trying to figure out as many details as she could. Hermione sat in the corner with Luna while the blonde played with her hair, braiding it and unbraiding it absentmindedly.

"Should we try again to attack?" Ginny asked the room. "We don't have magic, but we have numbers. Instead of five against two, we could be fifty against a handful."

There was a thick silence, and someone said, "After what happened... with Parvati and Lydia... I just—"

"I'd be more afraid of living than dying, if I were you," Pansy said, staring at her nails.

"Are you volunteering with me, Parkinson?" Ginny asked.

Pansy smirked. "I don't volunteer."

Ginny looked over at her. "Hermione? What do you think? They haven't upped the number of guards. It's still just Dolohov and at least one more. The next time they come into the room, we could... I don't know." Ginny let her arms drop to her side.

Ginny stared at her, hopeful, excited. Hermione stared back.

Ginny had private showers for five days now. She hadn't watched Lydia Baxter bleed to death in front of her. She hadn't listened to Luna's screaming. She hadn't felt the heat of Dolohov's hand between her legs, hadn't felt his foul breath as he talked in slow whispers about what he wanted to do to her body.

Ginny had a voice.

And it was brilliant that she still wanted to use it. Truly. But Hermione was already having trouble making eye contact with people. And she knew enough about shock, and submission, and torture to know that she was not in the right state of mind to discuss this right now. That people would die, and it would live on Hermione's soul like a fungus.

Ginny was waiting for an answer. The entire room was.

Hermione still had no voice. Instead, she shrugged.

Then, watched Ginny blink at her. Watched several of the younger girls look away, eyes wet. Watched Pansy's eyes narrow and Penelope Clearwater's gaze drop.

Luna took her hand, laced their fingers together and hummed a small song.

"Nothing?" Ginny scowled. "Just"—she shrugged, an imitation of her—"Just nothing?" She laughed, a hollow sound. "Merlin, Hermione! Think! Give an opinion! Isn't that what you're good at?"

Ginny's eyes were wide and on fire. Several girls shifted and stared with rapt attention.

"Ginny—" Cho started.

"No! She's always thinking. Always with the plan and always two steps ahead of everyone else, planning adventures no one else is invited on, and saving the world whenever Harry asks, but now Harry's dead and she can't be bothered to care?" Ginny sucked in air, voice quivering. Hermione felt her cheeks flush and tears spring to her eyes. "She's not fighting!"

"She did fight! She lost!" Mortensen yelled.

"Then she fights again!" Ginny snapped back. "If she doesn't—" Ginny turned to face her, addressing her again. "If you don't fight then what the fuck are the rest of us supposed to do?!" She gestured to the room of them. Hermione felt a buzzing in her ears. "Kingsley and McGonagall are gone. So, there's just you, Hermione! If Harry were here, he'd—"

Her voice cracked, like it had been cut in half. She moved her lips wordlessly, squeaking.

"If Harry..." she tried, breaking. Ginny clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide and watering.

Luna released Hermione's hand, nudging her to move, and Hermione was up, crossing to Ginny, pulling her into her arms, and holding her as she broke into pieces, voice echoing against the tiles in strange patterns.

She mouthed words against her ear, telling her how sorry she was and how much she wanted things to be different. All the clichés that sounded awful when said aloud, but when breathed into Ginny's fiery hair, they made sense. She told Ginny about Dolohov, about his hands and his eyes and how she wished she had killed him when she had the chance.

Ginny quieted, and Hermione pulled back to hold her face between her fingers looking into her eyes and breathed, We will survive this. I will find you.

Ginny nodded.

Hermione stepped away, feeling every eye on them. She turned in a circle, meeting the stare of each girl, reading the fear and the exhaustion. She ended on Pansy Parkinson, who held her eyes.

She couldn't speak for herself. Couldn't give voice to what she wanted to say to them. She looked down, maybe she could spell it again.

Grapes again. In a bowl near her feet. Hermione reached down, plucked one from the vine, and looked directly into Ginny's red eyes and extended it to her.

Not alone.

Ginny nodded, and took the grape from her fingers.

She felt the room breathe, drinking in the peace.

The door banged open.

She sprang away from Ginny, grabbing more grapes, like it was her intention for being in the center of the room.

She listened for Dolohov's heavy boots, but they didn't come. She looked to the door.

"Well, hello everyone." A tall young man sending them a dazzling grin.

Marcus Flint. He'd gotten his teeth fixed.

"Granger," he nodded at her. "Lovely to see you again." He let his eyes trail down her torso, tilting his head as he took in her hips and legs. He looked down at a piece of paper in his hand, eyes running down the page. He frowned. "Ah. Of course not." He looked up at her again, sighing dramatically. "It would have been too good to be true." A smile.

Hermione stared at him, moving slowly back to her side of the room.

Raising his voice, he announced, "Let me see Mortensen, Fawcett, Jimenez, and..." His brow lifted. "Parkinson."

Two girls slowly stepped forward. Hermione eyed the open door, just making out Yaxley's boots beyond the frame.

"For what?" Pansy snapped.

Flint searched the room for her, finding her in her normal corner. He smirked. "Oh, how the mighty have fallen..." he murmured. "I have a new potion to test out," he announced. He gazed around the room, eyes landing on Hermione again. "Something that could be quite lucrative in this current... market. I needed some test subjects. And here you all are." He grinned.

Hermione shuddered from her shoulders down to her fingertips.

"So those four girls please line up—"

"What kind of potion?" Pansy pried. She had the most history with Marcus Flint and it showed in the way he glared back at her.

Yaxley turned the corner, standing in the doorway and hissed, "Do it."

Mortensen joined the other two, Pansy drifting in line last. Flint looked Mortensen up and down, and told her to leave the line. He looked at the list and called out for a Nelson, and when a pale, thin-faced girl wobbled forward, he dismissed her before she even got in line.

"Jimenez step back. Let's see Sandhu?" A tall raven-haired girl with a thin waist and long legs stepped forward. Flint appraised her and smirked. He looked down at the list again, "Let's see, let's see."

"What's the list for?" Pansy repeated.

Flint grinned at her. "I'm allowed to take my pick of any of the Lots on this list. The rest of them would cost me 5,000 galleons up front."

Hermione paled. He had a list of the non-virgins. So, whatever this was, it was sexual.

"Lots?" Ginny spoke up. Flint's eyes swiveled to her.

"Lots for sale. That's what you are now."

A wave of silence, crashing like water in the bottom of a deep well.

The first time anyone had mentioned the Auction to them. Confirmed it.

Flint looked Ginny up and down, checked his list, and frowned. "Really Weasley? Don't tell me poor Potter had to die a virgin." He looked up at her. "Couldn't take one for the team?"

Even without magic, Hermione felt the air around Ginny crack.

Ginny launched herself forward with a holler, latching on to Flint and scratching at his face, reaching for his throat.

BANG!

Ginny flew back, body smacking into the dark tile wall opposite the door, held up by Yaxley's wand.

Flint righted himself, grinning.

Girls scurried away from Ginny's dangling body like roaches in the light. Her legs kicked.

"Oh, I like her." Flint cooed. "She's Dolohov's? I'm sure he wouldn't mind if we played with her for a bit—"

"The Dark Lord wants her intact," Yaxley commanded.

Hermione braced herself against the wall, next to Luna again. The first time anyone had mentioned Voldemort to them.

Ginny chuckled, a manic sound. "Tom misses me?"

Yaxley rolled his eyes and held her there while Marcus Flint returned to his floor show.

"Alright, who else." Flint looked over the list again, pacing the room. He stopped. "Penelope Clearwater."

A shuffling from a corner, and Penelope stepped forward with her chin up.

"Huh." Flint smirked. "I thought you'd never give it up." He walked around her in a circle, and to her credit, Penelope didn't flinch. "Oi, remember when I invited you to the Yule Ball, and you choose that Poncy Weasley instead?"

Her jaw ticked.

"Are you done yet?" Yaxley asked. Flint's eyes never left Penelope's.

"Yes. I'll take Clearwater, and bring Parkinson for Macnair. He'll probably prefer a pure-blood whore."

Penelope and Pansy were marched out. The door slammed and Ginny's body dropped from the wall.

Two hours later, they returned Penelope. She kept her eyes down, not speaking, and laid in the corner facing the wall.

Several girls tried to feed her, make her drink water, get her to talk about it. She didn't move. They left a pile of grapes for her in hopes she would eat when she was ready.

As Hermione added a grape to Penelope's pile, she looked toward the door, wondering why Pansy hadn't been returned.

~*~

When she woke on Friday morning, Pansy Parkinson was sitting next to her, staring down at her face with an open expression, like she'd fallen asleep with her eyelids open, watching her. Her deep eyes blinked at seeing Hermione awake, and the familiar sneer and pout returned to her lips. Hermione sat up slowly, heart beating fast like it did while they were on the run, always looking for enemies.

No one else was awake except a few girls in the far corner who were known to stay awake in misery.

Hermione looked back to Pansy, and the girl flicked her limp hair over her shoulder in a way that reminded Hermione of Charms class. She'd never been this close to her. If she concentrated, she could still smell her perfume. Something floral that used to stick to Draco's robes.

Pansy lifted a still-perfect brow and looked out over the room of sleeping girls.

"I used to envy you."

Hermione waited. Waited for the proof that someone else had spoken. Waited for her mind to conjure the meaning behind the words.

"On the day I left for Hogwarts, my father told me to concentrate on my studies because I wasn't pretty enough to catch a husband. I thought it was a strange thing to say to an eleven-year-old, but..." Pansy swallowed. Hermione held her breath, watching Pansy's perfect bow lips and dark lashes. "When he saw my marks at the end of third year, he told me he expected me to be the top girl in my class by the end of fourth, and I said, 'That's impossible. There's a Mudblood girl who can't be beat. But don't worry, Daddy. I can catch a husband just fine. I have the Malfoy boy wrapped around my little finger.'"

She broke into a laugh. Something low and self-deprecating. She tilted her head back against the wall and stared at the ceiling, shaking her head as if a toddler had just said something incredibly sweet and incredibly foolish.

Hermione stared, unable to speak, unable to move.

"And here we are," Pansy continued, "at the end of days, waiting in a line to be sold and raped and used. And still, I can't sleep with envy of you. Of what your life will be."

Pansy's head rolled against the wall to look at her again. Hermione stared with wide eyes, wishing more than anything that she could speak, could ask her what she meant.

Hermione watched as Pansy's eyes dripped over her face, slanting across Hermione's lips and cheeks, rounding at her temples and taking in her wild hair. Pansy's lips parted, took a breath in to speak again—

"What are you doing? Get away from her!"

Ginny was awake, tugging at Hermione's shoulders to put herself between her and Pansy.

Pansy rolled her eyes. "Calm your tits, Weasley. We were just having some girl talk." Her sneer was back in place.

She drew herself up and paced back to the other side of the room, facing the wall.

Hermione watched her until the door opened.

A frail old man entered the room. He reminded her of Ollivander. Especially his eyes. His brows twitched as he took in the room of girls.

He cleared his throat and looked at his shoes, and then turned back to Yaxley in the doorway. "Is this all of them, Mr. Yaxley?"

"There's about twenty males down the hall," Yaxley replied.

Ginny shifted next to her, probably wondering how many of her brothers were footsteps away.

"Well," the man replied, taking his glasses off to clean them, brows narrowing at his fingers. "The best way is individually, but I fear we'll run out of time. Proceedings start at eight?" He pushed his glasses back on his nose, and Hermione realized he refused to make eye contact with any of them. Refused to acknowledge them.

"Eight sharp."

He nodded. "Then let's get the women cleaned up while I start appraisals on the men. We might need to do groups." He stared at his shoes and swept out.

Yaxley turned to her. "Mudblood. You're up."

There were probably twenty Muggle-born girls in the room, but still everyone understood he was addressing Hermione. She stood, wobbling to the door, and followed him to the showers. He didn't stay in the room like Dolohov did. Didn't watch her undress. She supposed if he wanted her, he wouldn't be selling her.

She stood under the water, enjoying what was probably to be her last moments of privacy and relative safety in her life.

She wondered if Ron was down the hall somewhere. Or if he'd fought them. If he'd thrown himself into the fire like a true Gryffindor and attempted to smother the flames from within.

What would Harry say, if he could see her now?

Yaxley banged on the door after two minutes, and she quickly ran the shampoo through her hair, washed between her legs, and toweled off. The door opened as soon as she covered herself, and Yaxley and a second Death Eater lead in five girls for their showers. She reached for her clothes on the floor, and Yaxley stopped her.

"Ah," he chided. He vanished her garments and held a robe out to her. She took it carefully, draped it over herself, and let the towel drop once she was covered. The five girls stood against the wall, waiting patiently. As if this was routine now.

He vanished the towel and grabbed her elbow, leading her out of the room. Dolohov was standing guard outside the showers and sent her a wink.

"Make sure they take all of it, Corban. I like 'em bare."

"Yeah, yeah," Yaxley griped.

He turned her away from the usual path back to the holding room, and brought her down a new hallway. One Death Eater stood guarding the door. A young one Hermione recognized from Hogwarts. Maybe he'd been Slytherin's Seeker before Draco.

He opened the door for Yaxley, and Hermione found three witches in bright blue robes hovering around three padded tables and three chairs. One of them with bright orange hair gasped when she saw Hermione, bringing her fingers to her lips. Hermione didn't recognize her.

"Is there a problem?" Yaxley hissed.

The girl responded in a French accent, "No, monsieur." The other two looked down, one of them wringing her hands.

"Do not communicate with her." He yanked a curtain around the table and chair, standing on the outside of it.

The girls started speaking lowly in French, eyes wide and jumping to her. Hermione just stared back.

"You better be discussing curling irons," Yaxley bellowed.

The girls quieted and indicated that Hermione should sit on the first table. The orange-haired girl touched Hermione's shoulder and gestured for her to remove the robe.

Hermione frowned and shrugged. Why the hell not. They peeled the robe from her, and immediately started pressing lotion into her skin. She tensed under their hands. One of them lifted her arm above her head and pressed their wand to her armpit. Hermione twitched as the skin went numb, looking down anxiously. The witch muttered another spell and Hermione watched the hair burn away, sizzling down to the roots under the skin.

Inventive. She'd heard Lavender talking about this process, but she herself had never needed it. She would have liked it on the road with Harry and Ron though.

The memory pulled at something in her, and she looked straight ahead at the closed curtain, watching as the colors blurred.

The repeated the process under her other arm. Then removed hair from the tops of her forearms. Hermione frowned, her remaining vanity spiking. She didn't consider herself hairy.

When one girl started on her legs, the door opened behind the curtain. Yaxley led in one of the captured girls, fresh from her shower. One of the Lots.

Hermione snorted soundlessly. The Lots. Well done, gentlemen.

The sensation of her entire leg being numbed for the hair removal had her feeling a bit weightless, like her limbs did belong to her. She swung her legs, not feeling the air swish by. The girl rubbed lotion onto her hairless skin, and Hermione couldn't help but feel like she was being prepared for slaughter.

The skin of her underarm started pricking back to life. One of the French girls started in on the new Lot while the other one cast a hair-drying charm on Hermione's wet hair. The girl's eyes bugged out of her head at the sheer volume of Hermione's dried, frizzy hair, and Hermione couldn't help but laugh.

The hair girl charmed her wand to blow hot air, trying to tame down Hermione's curls, fixing her mistake.

A third Lot was brought in, and then only the French girl messing with her hair stayed with her. She kept frowning and huffing, and Hermione smiled at her knees. Her hairless knees.

I like 'em bare.

They'd be taking the hair from between her legs next.

Hermione picked at her chipped nails while the girl fought her hair, trying to remember the way she'd gotten ready for the Yule Ball. She'd bought that sweet-smelling potion and spent hours on her hair. She'd been about to jump in the shower to wash it all away when Lavender and Parvati had come back to the dormitory and squealed at the sight of her, telling her she looked stunning.

They were both dead now.

The French girl had her lay back, open her legs, and remain still while she removed the hair from her sex.

~*~

They were returned in small dresses and Mary Jane shoes. Half of them in white, half in grey. She could guess what the white meant.

The girls who could still speak started informing the rest of the room what was happening. About an hour later, Dolohov and the young Death Eater started taking a few at a time to a separate room. The Appraisal, one of the returning girls said.

"It's 5,000 galleons more if you're a virgin," Mortensen murmured from the corner, in a grey dress. "Parkinson was right."

Pansy looked stunning in her slate grey dress when they returned her. Hair thick and sharp. She might have even conned them into swiping mascara on her eyes. She stood in her corner, arms crossed, lips pressed together. As cool and collected as ever—and it made Hermione wonder what it was they did to her. What they kept her for. She wished she could ask her, but even if she had a voice she didn't think she'd have the courage to.

They took Ginny and Luna together, which she thought was a mistake, but she wasn't about to protest. Dolohov led them away with two other girls, and returned them fifteen minutes later. Ginny looked a little green.

Luna plopped down beside her and said, "We saw Neville." Hermione snapped her head to her, waiting for more. Luna just smiled and said, "They aren't feeding or bathing them much."

"Granger and Parkinson," Yaxley called from the doorway. "Let's go."

She stood. These pairings... Not ideal for them. When Pansy met her at the door, Hermione finally caught a glance at the tattoo on her arm, now without her school clothes in the way.

C. Yaxley

Just like hers.

Yaxley was taking his Lots to be appraised. She wondered again how Pansy had gotten here. Was she held in the same location Hermione was before being dropped off at the Ministry? Had she been captured at the Battle of Hogwarts? Or later?

Yaxley took them down the corridor and into a completely new room where the older man with kind eyes sat at a desk, piles of paperwork around him.

"Who's next," he hummed, voice tired and thin.

Yaxley pushed Pansy forward. She stood tall. A measuring tape floated up and began taking her height while an enchanted quill worked beside it. It nudged her to raise her arms, measuring her waist, hips, chest.

"Name," he said.

"Pansy Parkinson," she stated proudly.

He looked up quickly, then looked away, pressing his lips together. "Blood status: pure-blood," he muttered. "Age?"

"Seventeen."

He wrote that down, and took the measurement page from the air, copying down that information as well. He shuffled through a pile and found another parchment, frowning down at it. "Anything in your medical history we should know about?"

Pansy scoffed. "Will it really matter if I broke my leg when I was nine?"

He grimaced down at the page. "No, I guess not." He reviewed what seemed to be the medical page the mediwitches had scribbled up for each of them a few days before. He dragged his eyes back to Pansy, and peered at her over his spectacles, making note of her eye, hair, and skin color.

He sighed, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and said, "Alright, based on the scale you've provided me with, starting bid should be 4,000 Galleons"—he marked this on his page—"and you can expect bidding to escalate to 12,000, based on her physical appearance and blood status. She was not sterilized, so she might be seen as valuable for certain families."

Hermione pressed her lips together, breathing slow. Pansy, on the other hand, turned to Yaxley and said, "Not bad, Yax," with a sly smile. "We can bump that starting bid up, though, can't we? Trust me," she said, leaning toward him conspiratorially. "I'm worth at least as much as one of the virgins. Much more useful." She winked.

Yaxley glared at her and threatened to silence her as well.

Hermione frowned, watching Pansy smile and flirt. Defense mechanism.

She'd probably been raped last night. Or tortured, or both. And now, instead of sitting quietly in a corner like Penelope Clearwater, Pansy Parkinson was weaponizing herself. Her body. Her wit. Her charm. All so she wouldn't break down.

Hermione didn't know how to do that. And she wasn't sure she wanted to learn.

"Next," the old man said.

Hermione stepped forward, and the measuring tape wound around her.

"Name."

"Hermione Granger," Yaxley replied for her.

The older man snapped his eyes up to her, taking her in. He blinked several times before returning to his paper.

"Blood status: Muggle-born," he said.

"Mudblood is the term now," Yaxley corrected, and the older man nodded.

"Age?"

"Seventeen," Yaxley replied, and she turned to correct him.

"Eighteen. She's eighteen," Pansy said.

Hermione blinked down at the tape circling her chest.

The old man pulled her medical form. He shook his head slightly, clenching his jaw, and Hermione saw him make a mark in the top right corner of his notes page: V

He copied down her measurements, did some calculations, and said in a hollow voice, "Starting bid for Miss Granger should be no lower than 7,500 Galleons based on your grading system." He pulled his glasses from his face. "But I've heard she and Miss Weasley will be starting at 10,000 regardless."

Hermione blinked. More Galleons than she'd seen in her life.

"Apologies," he continued, squinting at his numbers again. "With the virginity, they will be starting at 15,000."

Pansy chuckled and crossed her arms over her grey dress.

"And what's your estimation?" Yaxley asked, Sickles in his eyes.

"Estimating 33,000 Galleons."

Hermione felt like she was swallowing sand. Even Pansy, who was used to that kind of money, went still.

That was the yearly salary for the Undersecretary to the Minister.

The four-year tuition for one of the prestigious universities that she considered applying to after the war ended.

She realized she would not be killed. No one would be idiotic enough to buy her and then kill her off. No, it would be a slow death for her. Maybe years.

She wondered how Dolohov thought he could afford this.

The old man duplicated his notes with a tap of his wand and handed the copies to Yaxley. Yaxley grinned, eyes sparkling, and escorted the two of them out and back to the holding room.

She spent the rest of the day sitting near Ginny and Luna. The energy of the room was like a cold breeze, starting at one end and rolling over them individually, forcing them to tuck into each other. At some point, one of the girls started dreaming aloud about what she wanted to do after Hogwarts. Hermione thought she was maybe a fifth year. Several others followed her, voicing aloud the things they wanted to do. Like they had choices still.

There were no windows, so it was hard to tell when the day began to inch toward evening, but hours later, Walden Macnair walked into the room, several other Death Eaters waiting in the doorway behind him.

Hermione watched Pansy tuck herself behind another girl, spine curving to become smaller.

Macnair looked around the room with a careful intensity. His eyes stopped on Hermione and Ginny, smirking.

"Ladies," he announced, and Hermione wondered if it was to be the last time she would be addressed with such formality. "We'll begin transporting you now. Your Holder will be in charge of you while you travel by portkey. Anyone who tries to fight or run or disobey orders during this process will be killed promptly."

He said this last part directly to her.

"Once you are secured backstage, you will follow instructions from the handlers. Disobedience will result in punishment. For example—"

Quick as lightning, his wand turned on her. A screaming pain rocketed through her blood, boiling and coursing through her muscles, shaking her nerves and pulling her ligaments apart one by one.

And then it was gone. And Ginny's hands were on her shoulders, holding her, screaming for her.

She stared up at the black tile ceiling, breathing hard. She'd been Crucio'd before, but this was strong. Like a concentrated force of lightning sizzling her. It took her a few minutes to sit up.

By the time she focused her eyes again, Macnair was finishing his speech, and asking for his Lots to join him. He searched the room as four girls stepped forward. The two in white were scared, but the two in grey were shaking.

He'd already raped them. Before bringing them here. Like Parvati.

"Parkinson," he hissed. "Come with me, too."

Pansy stepped out from her spot behind a tall girl and pasted on a smirk. "Long time, no see, Walden." She strutted to the group. "You gonna drop a few Galleons on me tonight?"

He looked her up and down and said, "Why would I pay for something I already got for free?"

Pansy's smile fractured, still on her face, but broken now.

Pansy and the four other Lots followed Macnair's instructions and gripped his arm. He produced the portkey and they disappeared.

Mulciber entered the room next. He called for his Lots and they disappeared. She recognized a few Snatchers come in gleefully, grabbing up eight or so girls before swirling away.

Dolohov and Yaxley came in last. Dolohov called for his Lots, and Luna and Ginny left her side.

When it was just her and Yaxley left in the room, she wandered over to him without being summoned. It was clearly a type of Stockholm Syndrome, but she was certain Yaxley wouldn't hurt her. He hadn't shown the slightest bit of sexual interest in her, going so far as to keep Dolohov from molesting her further.

He grinned at her and pulled his wand. Hermione blinked, feeling like she'd just walked into a trap.

"Bit of a costume change, love," he said, smirking. "Turns out, you'll be top prize tonight. Best for last."

His wand tapped her shoulder strap, and she watched as the dress pulled closer to her skin, curving at her hips and rounding her breasts. No undergarments in the way.

He smiled and flicked his wand again, and she watched as the fabric shimmered gold.

"Golden Girl, indeed," he said.

And then grabbed her arm and whisked her off.

When they spun into their destination, Hermione had two seconds to let her eyes adjust to the dark before she was forced onto a chair, arms behind her. They affixed her hands to the back of the chair with a Sticking Charm. Because he'd tightened and shortened her dress, she struggled to press her knees together, the wooden seat pressed against her bare backside.

Yaxley moved away from her, speaking with the guards in low voices, and Hermione looked around her to find chairs with restrained Lots lining the entire room.

Not a room. She looked up to a tall ceiling, maybe three stories high, dizzying her. Catwalks and ropes, but also strange things hanging from pulleys. Velvet curtains dropping down from above.

Backstage, Macnair had said. They rented out a theatre for this.

No, of course not. Hermione shook her head. No one rented anything.

She looked to her right and found Ginny sitting next to her, staring down at her knees. It looked as if Dolohov had the same idea as Yaxley and had shortened and tightened Ginny's white dress. Ginny looked up at her, eyes wet, and mouthed, Hi.

She looked around. One of the Snatchers was still restraining and silencing his many charges. Her eyes drifted toward the source of light. The stage. They'd decorated it. She squinted at the tall pieces, trying to figure out what they were.

Movement across the stage, and Hermione found herself staring into the other wing, directly at Ron Weasley, struggling against his chair.

She gasped, soundlessly.

Ron was screaming in silence, and she saw his lips form her name.

She could just make out twenty other chairs, lined up just like theirs. Neville sat slumped over in one. She thought she could make out Oliver Wood in another.

Hermione turned to Ginny, wiggling to get her attention, but Ginny was already staring across the stage, smiling softly, cheeks wet with slow tears.

The buzzing she'd associated with portkey travel ebbed and grew, and Hermione realized she was hearing an audience, just beyond the curtains.

Hermione whipped her head around, trying to take in as much as she could. Exits, hiding places, weapons.

There were about seventy prisoners according to Yaxley's count yesterday. There were fourteen Death Eaters on this side of the stage, and half of them were planning to bid. They couldn't do that from back here.

Seven guards for fifty girls. Possibly similar ratios on the other side.

She looked up and found Pansy staring directly at her, twenty feet away. Her eyes abruptly flicked to one of the guards and then back to Hermione.

Hermione looked and found a dark-featured twenty-something bloke. He was thin with dark brows that made him look more menacing than his size suggested. As she looked at him, his eyes drifted to her thighs.

A chill raced along her skin, and she watched as he blinked away. She looked back at Pansy, not knowing what she wanted. Was she warning her?

Before she could think on it, a man swept in through a door, Macnair trailing behind him. Ludo Bagman. His eyes traveled over the chairs, stopping briefly over the faces he knew. He looked down at his shoes and fiddled with the papers in his hands.

"The Death Eaters thank you for your services, Mr. Bagman," Macnair hissed, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Yes, Macnair. I am... glad to be of service." He shuffled the papers, and Hermione recognized them as the notes the appraiser had taken.

She wanted to scream. He could stop this. He could try. He wasn't like the rest of them.

But people like the appraiser, Bagman, even the mediwitches and French girls... they were doing their best, Hermione concluded. Too powerless to fight, but against joining. When contracted, they obeyed.

Bagman looked down at one of the pages and turned to Macnair. "Is this an error? This number?"

Macnair looked and smiled. "No error. Potter's Princess. If you think that's good, take a look at the Golden Girl."

Bagman flipped to the next page and she watched his face pale. He met her eyes instantly, like he already knew her place in the room.

"We need to take our seats, Mr. Bagman," Macnair announced, earning the attention of the other Death Eaters. He offered his hand and Ludo took it. "The Palace is yours."

The Palace Theatre in London. Her parents had taken her here three summers ago. She'd sat in the front row of the first balcony, entranced by the 19th century French story she'd read in Hugo's book years before, gasping as the barricade rose, and sobbing as each life was ended.

Hermione looked onstage again. She recognized the set pieces now. It was eight o'clock on a Friday night. There should have been a show. She shivered to think that in one week, the Death Eaters had infiltrated Muggle London.

She met Ron's eyes across a stage set for revolution, memorizing the features she could just make out. Perhaps this was the last time she would see him.

Yaxley and the others followed Macnair out, slipping their masks on. Dolohov made sure to sweep by her, trailing his fingertips across one shoulder, dipping below her collarbone and across.

When she could bring her eyes off the floor she looked up to see the heavy-browed guard looking at her chest.

These guards were not Death Eaters. They weren't wearing the robes and masks, and the forearms she could see did not bear the Dark Mark. Aspiring Death Eaters, maybe? She wondered what were the politics of Voldemort's inner circle now that the war was won. Those who did not fight were probably not granted status.

She made a mental list of Death Eaters she last knew to be alive. She'd seen most of them in the last week.

Hermione frowned. Lucius Malfoy had not come to collect his Lots. Was it possible he hadn't captured any? Or that he'd only taken males?

There was little doubt in her mind that he was out in the crowd tonight. Voldemort too, probably.

Was Draco?

She looked to Pansy, still staring back at her. He probably was. He needed to come claim her.

Ludo Bagman cleared his throat, checked his timepiece, and moved to the edge of the curtain. He seemed focused on ignoring the presence of the fifty of them. The hum of the crowd swelled.

Hermione turned to Ginny, silenced and tied. She had her knees pressed together tightly, her eyes on the floor. It was like she was experiencing the full range of Hermione's shame, only a few days after. The shame that had killed the fire in her.

Ludo Bagman stepped on stage and a light hit him, igniting his smile and jaunty step. The theatre roared, and Hermione jumped with the pressure of it. Hundreds.

Ginny flinched next to her.

Hermione's eyes found several props and costumes tossed in the corner behind them. A long blonde wig and locket. A blue scullery factory dress. They should have been gathered and hung at the end of the performance.

What happened to the actors?

"Welcome!" Ludo's amplified voice spun over the crowd. "Welcome. Find your seats, gentlemen." He stepped up to a podium. Hermione felt her heart thunder in time with the applause.

One of the girls a few chairs away started to hyperventilate. Or at least that's what it looked like. She dipped her head between her knees, tears tracking down her cheeks, mouth open wide. One of the guards went to check on her, wrenching her up, and Hermione noticed that all of the guards were young, eager boys. One or two might have been at Hogwarts with her, but most looked in their twenties.

She glanced at Pansy again. It was like the dark-haired girl had never taken her eyes off of her from the moment she sat down. Pansy's eyes flipped to the brooding guard again, and back.

What? What did she want?

She didn't recognize him. Didn't know how she could work this.

Ludo was beginning some kind of opening remarks. They sounded rehearsed. Some propaganda about the days to come.

Hermione looked at the guard. His gaze on her knees again.

She felt like she should have been disgusted, but Pansy wanted her to pay attention. To see something else.

Two of the young guards moved to the curtains, watching and listening to Ludo.

They weren't bidding.

Hermione looked to Pansy, mind working.

They were not initiated, and they did not have the funds to actually secure a Lot.

His eyes on her legs again.

And this one was greedy.

Pansy locked eyes with her and slouched down in her chair, opening her knees. Hermione blinked when her dress rode up with the movement. Pansy stretched her legs out, crossing them at the ankles, and straightening her spine until her chest stood out, thin slate dress pulling down.

Hermione felt like she was being seduced. Pansy lowered her lashes at her, and then looked to the dark guard.

Hermione looked up and found his pacing slowing whenever he crossed in front of her, his eyes at the hem of her dress every time.

"We have seventy-seven Lots for auction tonight," Ludo announced magnanimously. The crowd erupted. Ginny pulled against the chair, hands stuck to it. Her teeth bared and her shoulders tight.

"Gentlemen, we'll bring each Lot onstage, one at a time. I have here their grading, important facts, and blood status. All Lots sold as is. The winning bidders will coordinate with Walden Macnair at the end to arrange payment."

Hermione let the words wash over her. She watched Pansy's dress rise higher, watched her gaze drift over to one of the guards - a pale boy who Hermione recognized from Hogwarts. His eyes had landed on Pansy's thighs. Pansy smiled at him.

Another weak link.

Hermione took a deep breath, and looked up at her guard. He met her eyes. She watched his face as she slouched in her chair, opened her knees, and let Pansy Parkinson teach her how to survive.

His eyes skimmed down her body as her dress slid up.

"Let's start off the evening right," Ludo crowed. "With a Weasley."

The audience screamed, and Ginny thrashed.

"Not that Weasley!" Ludo teased. The crowd cackled. "Not that Weasley, either!" They hissed. "Let's start off with one of those other gingers."

He gestured to the other side of the stage, and George was dragged out, hands stuck together behind his back. He had a black eye and a limp. It seemed that the Healers were only called for the girls. Or maybe the damage was done today.

Ludo Bagman laughed and beckoned George to his side, but Hermione could see he was grey. He knew the Weasley twins. Even if they had their disagreements, he knew them.

The guard who favored Hermione inched closer to her. The two who stood watching the first bidding were joined by two more. Only three guards on them and one was focused on her, one focused on Pansy.

Hermione straightened her spine like Pansy had, watching as his eyes darkened. Ludo read George Weasley's catalog.

"Twenty-years-old. Pure-blood. So, if anyone is looking for a blood traitor to play with..."

Ludo chuckled and the crowd hissed.

Her guard knelt down, pretending to tie his shoe. She checked with Pansy, seeing her pale-faced guard trailing fingers across her collarbone while she licked her lips. He started peeling down her shoulder strap.

"Fine muscle mass, as you can see on your parchments. If you need another house elf, this might be your lucky day."

Fingers on her ankle, and she was reminded of Dolohov. The guard slid his hand up her calf, pushing her knees further apart. She bit her lip like Pansy, and heard Ginny struggling next to her, realizing what was happening to her.

"Let's start the bidding at 2,000 Galleons."

She leaned her face down towards him, and he had his eyes on her lips when she reeled her head back and slammed her forehead into his.

He yelled and her head spun. She heard a crash from Pansy's direction, and a splintering from her right where Ginny sat.

She tried to open her eyes but her skull ached. A splintering from somewhere else, a scrambling. Grunting and yelling.

The distracted guards cursing and running away from the curtains.

She opened her eyes and made out several bodies, thrashing on the ground. Ginny had thrown herself, breaking her chair. The pieces of wood her hands stuck to were firm in her fists, beating against the dark-featured guard.

She blinked slowly and looked over to find Pansy raising a splintered chair back, and impaling her guard in the stomach with a silent scream. Penelope Clearwater had most of her chair still put together, and swung it at the head of a running guard, knocking him back and climbing on top of him, slamming the wood against him.

"Some kind of... commotion. Nothing to worry about—"

All fifty girls had just figured out how to get out of their chairs. And there were only seven guards. The sound of breaking wood and splintering chair legs was everywhere.

"Stay in your seats, gentlemen!"

Curses started flying. Hermione stood hunching, the back of her chair stuck to her palms. She twisted and threw herself onto the floor, feeling the chair break under her. A pop as her shoulder dislocated, and she yelped with no sound. She sat up, looking for an exit, but blood dripped into her eyes from where she'd head-butted the guard.

Running footsteps, thundering from the stage, and the Death Eaters were there, casting stunning spells and kicking girls aside to beat through the crowd. She recognized Dolohov's boots.

She wobbled to her knees and crawled back, hugging the walls. She found a few scared girls there, but she pushed through, moving around the scrambling bodies.

She heard Macnair screaming orders, and Yaxley organizing the stunned bodies, yelling for them to get to her.

A pair of arms from behind her, wrapping around her waist, tugging her back. She kicked, and he dropped her, her elbow slamming into the ground. Arms around her again, and she wasn't sure if they were the same.

She was pulled up, held against a man's chest with his arms wrapped around her shoulders and wound against her hips. She screamed silently, kicking the air. He moved with her, dragging her away.

Was he stealing her or bringing her back?

The air smelled of blood and pine. And she wondered where the revolutionaries were.

She was concussed, she could tell.

She heard Yaxley's voice close by, and the man turned with her.

Yaxley was blurry with the blood in her eyes, but he held his wand out in front of him.

"Good work, Malfoy."

She had just enough time to wonder if it was Draco or Lucius before Yaxley stunned her.

~*~

Her head burst apart, and she gasped noiselessly against the pain.

Thunder rolling through her, rattling her head. She blinked her eyes open, and found herself backstage of the Palace Theatre again, the stage lights burning into her irises.

The sound of a gavel, and she knew where she was.

Raucous yelling. Cheering and jeering. She blinked against the lights, feeling the pounding in her forehead, and focused on the figure in white onstage standing next to Ludo Bagman.

Red hair and freckled skin. Ginny stuck her nose in the air, ignoring the taunting.

There were two guards on either side of Hermione, holding her up until she stood on her own. She'd been Rennervated by one of them. She turned to look at the girls, but all she found was broken chair legs and drying blood.

And a blonde wig and locket. A blue dress.

Twisting to look around pulled at her shoulder, recently reset. She found a backstage mirror, cracked down the middle, and saw that they had banished the blood from her face. She couldn't tell if the concussion had been healed. She was nauseous and spinning, but it might have been the symptom of a handful of other things.

Neither of the guards holding her was the one she'd seduced. She faintly remembered Ginny pressing a chair leg into his windpipe.

Had Ginny...

She turned back to look at the dried blood on the black floors. Ginny stood onstage in her white dress, splattered with red. She turned her spotlit face to look at Hermione, and dried blood trailed down from her temple. Her hair wild. Her eyes dead. They'd left her bloody. Like a gladiator. Forced to entertain.

Had she killed that guard?

Hermione watched as Ginny turned back to the howling crowd, setting her face against the harsh lights.

"Mulciber, we all know you don't have that kind of gold!" Bagman's voice cut through the pounding in her ears. The Death Eaters laughed. "Only serious bets here, gentlemen!"

Ginny was being auctioned. Then her.

She'd missed it. She'd missed the entire Auction. She wouldn't know where everyone ended up. Where Luna was sent, or Ron and Neville. She'd have to gather the information as best she could, and hope for a rebellion.

She turned back to the stage as the gavel banged.

"Sold!" The audience erupted. "Ginevra Weasley, love of the late Harry Potter, sold to Aron Avery for 28,550 Galleons!"

Her stomach heaved, and the guard at her right propped her up.

Such a lot of money. An insane amount. She wondered if she'd really fetch her appraised price—33,000 Galleons.

The noise from the crowd deafened her momentarily, and then she knew her concussion wasn't healed. She watched with a spinning head as several guards marched onstage – none of them her guard – and secured Ginny's wrists. Ginny kept her head up, eyes high on the balcony as Macnair and Avery came forward.

Avery's smug thin lips smirked at the crowd. Macnair produced a scroll from his robes, and the yelling intensified as Avery took the offered quill.

Ginny jerked her arm, wincing as Avery signed his name on the scroll. The brand on their forearms must change to reflect ownership.

Avery turned to the crowd, grinning wide with crooked teeth. He slapped Ginny's backside, and Hermione watched her teeth clench.

Her head pounded as Macnair escorted Avery back offstage to settle his debts. As the guards turned Ginny and forced her offstage, Hermione wondered if there was something she'd missed. If there was something she could have done differently.

Maybe they shouldn't have ceased fighting in the courtyard once Hagrid appeared with Harry's body. Shouldn't have given Voldemort an audience. Shouldn't have put all their faith in Harry.

Maybe she shouldn't have followed Narcissa Malfoy around the castle. She should have stayed and taken cues from McGonagall. Maybe they would have been able to attack again.

They escorted Ginny toward her, and as her bottom lip trembled beneath somebody's dried blood, Hermione decided her only true mistake had been not killing Dolohov in the Ministry corridors.

She should have killed Dolohov, and then Yaxley, and then taken whoever was still alive and escaped. She should have let Luna die. It was probably for the best.

She looked over Ginny's face for the last time, and watched her lips mouth, I will find you.

Hermione whispered back, Not alone.

Ginny disappeared through the backstage door.

"And now... our grand finale."

It sounded like Ludo Bagman was announcing the Seeker entering the stadium. Perhaps he had? It could be if she just closed her eyes. The theatre thundered.

She blinked, trying to focus. She needed to be present. Maybe once this day was over, she would fall asleep with her concussion and never wake up.

They pushed her forward, escorting her onstage. Bagman was yelling something over the crowd, but she just squinted against the lights. Someone was operating the theatre spotlight, and Hermione almost laughed at that image.

She looked down at her feet as they placed her on a red "X" next to Bagman. Her gold dress shimmered.

She looked up, remembering Ginny's lifted chin. The theatre was full. Balcony after balcony. Must have been over a thousand people, and Hermione despaired at the thought that Voldemort had this many followers already. How many of these people had been lying in wait, biding their time until the end of the war? And now here they were.

The noise continued for ages. Her eyes landed on the masked Death Eaters on the ground level, filling up the majority of the front rows. Some of them on their feet, screaming and taunting and punching their fists in the air. Some of them seated, whispering to each other and pointing to the stage.

She scanned the crowd, looking for Bellatrix, for Greyback, for the Dark Lord himself. She recognized Yaxley in the front, Dolohov by his side. Mulciber and Nott Sr. She couldn't find the blond locks of Lucius Malfoy, or the raven curls of Bellatrix.

"Alright! Alright!" Bagman laughed, sounding like his old self again. "I know we're excited. Some of us have special toys to go home to..."

Hermione slid her eyes to Ludo as the men cackled. He'd been seduced by it all. Infected. He met her eyes and quickly looked away.

"Our final Lot of the evening," he announced theatrically. He read off her appraisal notes. "Hermione Granger." Hissing. "Mudblood." Booing. "'Golden Girl.'" Jeering. "Friend to Harry Potter, Gryffindor, and enemy of the Dark Lord."

They were on their feet again, screaming. She heard the words Mudblood and Bitch and Kill the slut.

String her up!

—deserves this, the dirty—

Show us her quim!

Have a bit of fun with her, you will!

Make an example out of her.

Bend over, sweetheart! Let's take a look at ya!

Mudblood whore. I'd love to break her in.

She let it wash over her, like a cool bath.

Only one masked Death Eater sat perfectly still throughout. Four rows back on the left aisle.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," Bagman crooned. He raised his hands to call for peace. "I've not yet begun the bidding."

Laughter. A howl from the top balcony. Hermione looked up and found the shadows in the top tier pacing, prowling out of their chairs. The werewolves were invited. Separate and not-so-equal.

"Don't you want to know more about Miss Granger's medical exam?" Bagman sang. And the theatre exploded again.

She could hear them like a whisper. Talking about her virginity. Hypothesizing about if she'd used her mouth before.

The lights were hot.

She focused on the lone Death Eater, still not socializing. Maybe he'd already bid on his Lot, and now was just enjoying a night at the theatre.

Ludo read out her measurements. They cackled when he suggested that she'd do fine in the kitchen, and whooped when he mentioned her muscle mass would be handy in the gardens. They crowed at the thought of her dusting their manors.

Ludo danced around the truth of the matter, teasing them, until finally:

"And gentlemen..." His voice dropped low. "In case you were curious... It will be an extra five thousand for this one."

Thunder. The acoustics shivering with the applause and screaming. The lonely Death Eater did nothing but cross his leg.

"So, gentlemen... we start the bidding at fifteen thousand Galleons."

Fifty wands shot into the air, orange sparks calling Ludo's attention.

She swallowed and looked down to find Dolohov raising a lazy hand.

Wands were only raised on the ground floor, she realized. Perhaps they'd sold spectator tickets for the balconies.

"Let's weed you out a bit, shall we?" Ludo quipped. "Sixteen thousand."

Only about five wands dropped.

"Sixteen-five. Jumping up to sixteen-five, gentleman," Ludo began.

She watched as wand hands slowly descended, Dolohov and Mulciber keeping up with each other, laughing at their little game.

Her knees felt shaky, and she wondered if she would be seeing food again anytime soon. Perhaps never.

"Eighteen thousand Galleons. Do I hear—Yes, sir, eighteen thousand. What about eighteen-five?" He pointed to Dolohov. "Eighteen-five to Dolohov. Several others still in. Nineteen?"

She let her eyes glaze over, watching the unmoving Death Eater. He sat still, wand in his lap, head supported in his hand. He looked young. Thin shoulders. Tall.

"Nineteen-five? Yes, nineteen-five to Mulciber. Do we have—?"

"Twenty-five thousand." A tense voice. Hermione blinked as every person in the first three rows turned to look at her solitary masked man. He'd raised his wand, orange sparks. Had she summoned his voice by staring at him?

Whispers and shuffling. She knew that Ginny had just sold for a bit more than that.

"Er, yes. Twenty-five thousand to..."

"Twenty-six," Dolohov snarled, sending a glare back at the younger man.

"Twenty-six-five," from the fourth row.

"Twenty-seven."

"Twenty-seven-five."

"Twenty-eight!" Dolohov yelled, irritated with the boy in the fourth row.

The boy whose voice drawled out "Twenty-eight-five," like money was no object to him. The boy whose eyes she knew to be cold behind the mask. Whose long fingers twirled his sparking wand. And Hermione noticed it was hawthorn again. She wondered if he'd stolen it back from Harry's dead body.

Dolohov hesitated, looking up to Ludo. "Twenty-nine."

"Twenty-nine-five."

And the thought floated through her consciousness that there was an auction, and she would belong to someone in a few short minutes.

And Draco Malfoy was bidding.

The theatre was buzzing. Most of the crowd had figured out that the Malfoy boy was throwing his money against Antonin Dolohov.

"Thirty," Dolohov stated firmly, like he'd ended a game of cards.

"Thirty thousand, five hundred," Draco hummed.

A crashing wave of whispers. Hermione looked down at her feet, finding specks of blood on her Mary Janes that they'd forgotten to clean.

Ginny was left bloody and wild, Hermione cleaned and groomed. Like the prized mare.

"Do I hear thirty-one thousand?" Ludo asked, speaking up again.

Dolohov's wand shot in the air. Draco's followed.

Dolohov had been so arrogant, so firm in his beliefs that he could afford her. But he didn't have the gold to back this up. So why was he—

Her blood ran cold.

Ginny. Ginny's twenty-eight thousand Galleons now belonged to Dolohov.

And Luna's. And the other girls' he'd caught.

Assuming he had four virgins, he now had a lot of money to bet.

Yaxley and Dolohov had been in charge of the Lots. Their main guards. Why had they left them backstage in the hands of randy young boys who hadn't even taken the mark yet?

"Thirty-two thousand," one of them yelled, but Hermione was concentrating on her head pounding, her shoulder aching.

Did they want a riot? Seven guards against fifty girls? It certainly seemed lazy.

A howling in the balcony.

"Thirty-three thousand," Draco stated.

Lust and bloodlust. It probably increased their bets.

"Thirty-three-five," Dolohov hissed.

"Thirty-four." Draco's voice, lazy and familiar, lulled her.

What did he want from her? Revenge? Status?

"Thirty-four-five."

The devil you know. She stared at Draco's mask, drilling her eyes into him, begging him to win.

"Thirty-five thousand," he said, crossing his legs again.

"Getting a bit steep for you, whelp?" Dolohov stood and faced the fourth row, removing his mask. "Hesitating?"

"Steep for me?" Draco laughed. "I'm surprised you can count this high."

Dolohov turned to the stage again. "Forty-five thousand Galleons."

Hermione swallowed as she listened to the hissing. She looked to Draco, still and silent.

"How much of that inheritance did daddy give you to play with, boy?" Dolohov smirked back at him.

Ludo cleared his throat and said, "I hear forty-five thousand. Do I hear forty-six?"

Draco's wand lifted. Orange sparks.

"I can go all night, Malfoy," Dolohov said, throwing his arms out wide. "I've been saving up for this for a while now, and I just made fifty-two thousand off my Lots for this evening."

"Fifty-three thousand," Draco spat.

Dolohov laughed and turned back to Ludo. "Fifty-five."

"Sixty." Draco's voice cracked.

"Sixty-one." Dolohov grinned, yellow crooked teeth shining at her.

She wasn't sure if it was the concussion, or the stage lights, or the future bearing down on her, but she felt her lungs begging for air.

She'd known that this would happen. That she'd be leaving with Dolohov. She'd been mentally preparing for a week. Even so, her hope hadn't died.

She'd felt a spark of possibility when Draco Malfoy started bidding. She didn't know if she would truly be better off with him. But now, as he hesitated before yelling, "sixty-two," she wished he'd never jumped in at all. Now she would always wonder.

"Sixty-five thousand," said Dolohov, chuckled.

Ludo was white next to her as he waited. "I hear sixty-five thousand," he said at last. The crowd started twisting, buzzing with whispers. "Do I hear sixty-six?"

She didn't dare look to him. Couldn't bear the idea that if she looked, she might see indecision in the way he held his shoulders. Maybe she could pinpoint his thoughts like in Arithmancy, when he'd roll his shoulders back and reset his posture before diving back into a problem.

"Sixty-five thousand going once."

Or the way he'd stare at the chalkboard in Potions, tilting his head to the side until suddenly grabbing for his quill, jotting his thoughts onto the parchment as if they'd disappear if he wasn't quick.

"Sixty-five thousand going twice."

Or in sixth year, when he'd been removed and sullen, strained to figure out a solution, and his eyes had been distant, cold and grey. Lifeless. His posture hunched and small.

A gavel banged.

The world cracked open, and a violent sound poured into her ears like lava.

Her eyes on the "x" beneath her feet as Dolohov jogged up onstage and met Macnair in the middle. The scroll. A burning on her left arm. And then a fist in her hair, dragging her head back. Dolohov was there, grinning down at her. He licked her face and the balconies went wild.

She shoved at him. And they loved that.

He laughed, grabbing her head to push her down to the floor. When she looked up from her knees, Dolohov was waving at the audience, basking in his victory, and unbuckling his belt.

She crawled back, shaking her head, rattling her bruised brain.

Yaxley was smiling in the front row, screaming, "Not until I get my money!"

She couldn't make out sounds anymore. Too much in her ears.

As Macnair wrenched her up, throwing her to the backstage guards, she chanced one last look to see the crowd on its feet, one seat in the fourth row empty.

The guards dragged her through the hallways of the Palace Theatre, taking stairs and turning corners that she couldn't possibly memorize even if she was trying.

They turned a corner and found a guard in front of a door. They passed him, and just before turning another corner and taking stairs down, she heard a loud crack and whipped her head around to see a small elf standing in the middle of the hall.

"Cuppy is here for three Lots," he squeaked.

They dragged her around the corner before she could hear any more.

The further down they went, the more often she heard a crack followed by a small voice. Using elves to transport the Lots.

She supposed they weren't "Lots" anymore. Slaves? Concubines?

They pushed her into an empty broom closet. She watched as they murmured the room number to each other, one of them writing it down and tapping his wand on the parchment.

They shut the door and left her in darkness. She tried the door handle, unsurprised when it didn't budge.

She sat in the middle of the floor, hugging her knees to her chest, and waited.

~*~

"Are there any boys at school you like?"

Hermione snapped her eyes to her mother, staring at her over the bowl of cookie dough. "Mum!"

Her mother laughed. "Just asking! What about Harry?"

"Oh, mother, no." Hermione rolled her eyes and grabbed a handful of dough from the bowl. "Harry's… no."

"Or Ron? You spend more time with his family than your own, you know." She bumped Hermione's hip as she placed the ball of dough on the baking sheet.

Hermione frowned. "Ron is infuriating. He's lazy and sleeps too much and he's always late." She huffed and pushed her hair away from her face. "He was so rude to me this past Christmas. I almost didn't forgive him. He's such a child."

Her mother chuckled and opened the oven door. "He'll grow up. I'm sure you'll turn around one day and find he's quite changed." She placed the baking sheet on the rack. "And no one else? Didn't you leave things a bit unfinished with that Vincent?"

"Viktor," Hermione corrected. "Viktor Krum. Yes, we still write but…" Hermione washed her hands. "I guess he wasn't quite my type. He's very handsome. But… I think I like…"

She stopped herself, frowning down at the suds.

"Yes?"

"Lighter hair," she settled on.

Her mother pushed Hermione's curls over her ear. "And is there anyone who does have light hair?" She could hear the smile in her voice.

"There is." Hermione reached for the dish towel and wrenched the material over her hands. "But he's cruel, and poncy, and arrogant." She tossed the towel down. "And I'm a fool."

Her mother kissed her temple. "That handsome, huh?"

Hermione groaned. "His hair is so beautiful, Mum."

Her mother laughed.

~*~

She had no way to count time, but she suspected she'd been locked in the closet for two hours. Strange, because others had been collected as soon as the Auction had ended.

The door wrenched open, blinding her with the light from the hallway. She threw her arm up, shielding her eyes and her body.

"Up."

She crawled to her feet, staring at the outline of Yaxley in the doorway. He stepped aside for her to exit. No house elf in the hallway.

Yaxley scowled at her and led her down the hall, the way she came. She wasn't sure what he had to scowl about. He was 65,000 Galleons richer. Not including whatever price Pansy fetched.

The image of Pansy piercing the belly of that guard floated up. His strangled yell as she bared her teeth at him.

She hadn't seen that guard later either.

They climbed the stairs she'd just descended, and her pounding head and burning shoulder made her wish an elf had appeared to relocate her. It hurt to breathe.

She heard a crack from down a hallway. The elves were still appearing. There were still Lots behind these doors.

Yaxley stopped in front of a door and turned to her. "If I ever see you again, it will be too soon, Mudblood."

She raised a brow at him and gave him a look that said, The feeling is mutual.

He pushed the door open and shoved her inside.

She expected to find Dolohov. Maybe a cot or a chair where he'd force her down and push up her dress.

She didn't expect to find Pansy Parkinson. She hadn't expected to find her ever again.

Pansy seemed to feel the same as she sat up tall from the counter she'd been leaning on, eyes wide and hungry. They were in a dressing room with mirrors on the walls and large bulbs flickering.

Yaxley shut the door, locking them in.

A sharp burning on her left arm. Hermione's mouth opened in a silent hiss of pain. She looked down to where Antonin Dolohov had been inked into her skin. The letters sizzled. She squeezed her fist and watched as the ink lifted, rearranging until a different signature formed on her skin.

D.M.

She blinked down at the letters, her vision swimming. It couldn't be...

Pansy was at her side, grabbing her arm.

"Ha!"

The sound jarred her. Pansy had been silenced the last time she'd seen her. Hermione was on day four.

Pansy turned away, running her nails through her hair. The mirrors allowed Hermione to see that she'd pressed her eyes closed, squeezing her lips together.

"Wow." She spun around to face her. "How much?"

Hermione shook her head, deciding that Pansy didn't need to know.

"Thirty-three thousand?" Pansy guessed, stalking toward her slowly. "Thirty-five thousand?" she said when Hermione didn't answer. "Come on, now. I'm curious. Forty?"

Hermione turned away but was unable to find a wall in which Pansy's face did not reflect back at her. Her own face was almost unrecognizable. Deep circles under her eyes and dry skin. Her jawline stuck out unpleasantly.

"Tell me, Granger," Pansy hissed over her shoulder. Hermione met her eyes and something stormed inside of them, like the moment before thunder cracks. She watched Pansy's blue eyes flood, and she took a slow breath before asking, "More than forty thousand?"

Hermione looked away, shivering. She caught sight of the ink on Pansy's arm.

A matching D.M.

A crack outside their door. The two of them jumped, and Hermione's fingers twitched for a wand that wasn't there.

A squeaky girl elf said, "Mippy is here for Misses Pansy and Hermione."

The door swung open. Yaxley stood guard while a tiny elf in a pink pillowcase looked up at them with bright green eyes.

"Misses! I take you now!"

She smiled and held out her two hands. Like they were going on a pleasant adventure together.

Pansy sniffed, blinking her eyes dry, and saluted Yaxley. "Later, Yax." She took Mippy's hand.

Hermione blinked down at Mippy's outstretched hand, and glanced at Yaxley. It wasn't a trick. She was leaving it all behind.

Her concussion was going to be a mess to handle after Apparition, but hopefully the elf magic would make it better. She took Mippy's hand, and the vision of Yaxley in the doorway vanished with a squeeze.

A heavy May wind assaulted them upon landing. Hermione's hair whipped into her eyes and when she pushed it back, the tall gates of Malfoy Manor pressed down upon her. A chill danced along her flesh, and she felt the pierce of thousands of eyes on her.

Mippy waved the gates open and gestured to come in. The dark hedges beckoned her, ready to swallow her whole. She turned to Pansy – staring at the Manor like she couldn't believe her eyes – then to the hills in the distance. How far would she get if she ran?

"Miss?" Mippy called over the wind.

Hermione stepped through the gates and her arm tingled. She looked down, and saw the tattoo sparkle before returning to normal. She assumed there was a barrier at the gates. She was locked in now.

The gates began to close. Hermione spun to see Pansy, arms wrapped around herself, watching the iron block her out.

Hermione turned to Mippy, pointing to Pansy outside of the gates.

"Miss Pansy stays," Mippy said helpfully. "We go now, Miss."

Mippy tottered up the drive, expecting Hermione to follow. Hermione stood frozen, watching the distance between her and the tiny house elf grow.

They wouldn't let Pansy in? Was she outcast? Banished? Hermione sprinted for the gates, meeting Pansy as she did the same. They pulled and tugged at the iron just as it finished closing. After, Pansy stared at her, then at the sky, as if waiting for lightning.

A whipping pop followed by another. Both girls turned to see two figures in cloaks ten feet away. Pansy scrambled back, grabbing for the iron.

"No!" one of the figures yelled.

Blaise Zabini pulled off his hood; Daphne Greengrass appeared next to him. "Don't cross the threshold," he instructed.

Pansy sobbed, throwing herself into their waiting embrace. Hermione blinked, watching as Pansy was reunited with her friends. She wondered where Ron had ended up.

"We have to be quick," Daphne said. Hermione could barely hear them over the wind. None of them spared her a second glance.

Blaise grabbed Pansy's arm, the one with the tattoo, stretching it out away from her body. Daphne uncorked a bottle and laced her fingers through Pansy's, pulling her hand tight. Blaise pulled from his pocket a scrap of leather, and pushed it into Pansy's mouth. She fought, confused, until Blaise had it between her teeth.

"This is going to hurt," he said to her. Pansy's eyes grew wide.

Daphne started pouring the contents of the bottle over Pansy's arm. Acid. Bubbling and boiling and sizzling at her skin. Pansy's screams stretched out over the wind, echoing down to the hills in the distance. Hermione hung on the bars, watching with wide eyes as Blaise pulled his wand and hissed a dark spell.

Black ink bled out of her arm and onto the grass. It thinned, turning to red. Turning to blood. And he stopped.

Pansy whimpered, tears running down her face. Daphne pressed a cloth to the blistered skin of her arm and pulled off her own cloak, tossing it over Pansy's shoulders. She linked their arms and readied them for Disapparating.

Hermione banged on the bars, rattling them.

Blaise turned around, seeing her like a ghost. She extended her tattooed arm as far as it would go, asking Blaise with her eyes.

He looked at her, then at the Manor. "This is the safest place for you, Granger."

Her lips parted, forming a plea she couldn't hear. Blaise gave her one last look and then took Daphne's other arm.

And they were gone. All she heard was the wind.

Hermione turned, leaning back on the iron bars.

A long stone path, cutting through hedges and leading to a grand manor, devastatingly beautiful in the moonlight despite its sordid history. A small elf stood framed in the doorway.

Was this her home? Her prison?

She looked at her arm again.

D.M. Not L.M. Draco himself had purchased her.

What did he want with her? What had he given up to obtain her?

She couldn't imagine that Dolohov would have parted with her for anything less than an astronomical sum.

The Malfoys were rich; that much had been clear even without the evidence of it staring down at her.

But why spend so much on her?

She couldn't stand here all night. She assumed she would either be forced inside by elf magic, or worse. By one of the residents of Malfoy Manor.

She stepped forward, and began her long walk.

Scabior had been eager the last time she'd made this walk. He'd dragged her behind him like a disobedient dog. She hadn't been able to think, hadn't been able to breathe.

She followed her feet, the doors growing larger in front of her. The tiny elf in the pink pillowcase blinked down at her as she climbed the stone steps, then turned and moved into the house.

Hermione paused at the top and looked back at the gates. Was she going to be punished for Pansy's disappearance? No, she assured herself. It had been by design. The elf said Pansy had to stay, and Hermione was to come inside.

But perhaps she would be punished in other ways. Without Pansy's charms, and legs, and sultry eyes to distract, Hermione was vulnerable. The only choice. She yanked the flimsy gold dress higher up her neckline.

She wondered what it meant that Pansy's tattoo had been removed. Was she free?

"Miss Hermione?"

She looked back down at the elf — Mippy, and stepped inside.

Several large fireplaces to her left. She remembered wondering how quickly she could find the Floo powder two months ago as Harry yelped under Greyback's grip. And just across the entrance hall, there was a closed door that she knew led to a drawing room.

"Miss?"

Hermione turned to see Mippy on the first stair of a massive marble staircase. Grand paintings of the Renaissance stretched to the ceiling, dappling the grey walls with golds and reds and blues.

She'd woken up in her first cell, been dragged by the hair to her second, and strong-armed into her third. And now she was being asked to climb the stairs and walk to her final one.

Mippy's bright eyes blinked at her. Hermione followed the elf up the stairs. They climbed to the third floor, and Hermione's head started to pound again, breathing more difficult after the week in captivity.

Her skin twitched as they passed statues and suits of armor, feeling like eyes were on her. The paintings glared and raised their brows. She swallowed and kept her eyes on the elf until she passed through a stream of moonlight.

Hermione stopped, finding a large window to her right. A pond near the hedges. And white peacocks sleeping on the bank. She'd read about Malfoy Manor before in a book on the Sacred Twenty-Eight. The white peacocks were a favorite of Draco's grandfather, their care passed down the line. The view would be lovely in the daylight. Spring flowers on the bank of the pond, a gazebo to the right.

"Miss?"

She shook her head clear and continued behind Mippy.

The hall was darker now. And she realized if they were on the third floor, she wasn't being taken to her cell yet.

She was being delivered straight to the bedroom.

Her pace slowed, and the elf stopped and came back to her. "Miss is okay?"

Hermione looked down at the sweet little thing. She wondered if Lucius hurt this one too. She probably knew Dobby at one point. And she wondered if Mippy had any idea what was about to happen to "Miss."

Hermione grabbed the side of a credenza, steadying herself. She swallowed the bile as it crawled its way up her throat.

Would it be Draco or Lucius? And which was better? Draco wouldn't be as cruel as his father for certain. He didn't have it in him. But to be treated as his property, as his slave, when she had a history of feelings for him...

She dug her fingernails into her palm, banishing the thought. Why had he bought her in the first place if not to own her as his slave. His whore.

The concussion wasn't healing. She felt small waxy hands on her wrist, and startled at the soft contact.

"Is Miss well?"

She laughed silently, pressing her eyes closed. No, Mippy. Miss is not well.

Her eyes drifted open, landing on a portrait of a Malfoy ancestor, possibly two hundred years ago. Lucius Malfoy's eyes stared down at her, the corner of his lips lifting in a snarl.

And suddenly she remembered how important Lucius's approval was to Draco. How much he idolized his father.

Perhaps she was a gift.

She heaved, vomit splashing down on the stone. The sound loud in the hallway. The first sound she'd made in days.

Mippy had a towel at her mouth, a damp cloth at her forehead. And vanished the sick from the Manor floor. The elf conjured a water glass and begged Hermione to sip. She did, and then left it on the credenza.

She heard the portraits hissing, bickering amongst each other about the proper place for her, about her blood. She concentrated on their voices as Mippy trotted down the hall, beckoning her to follow.

A Mudblood, sullying our sheets.

Such a foul ending—

—said it before, and I'll say it again: that Black girl was the downfall of our entire line.

Lucius was always weak. His son would be, too.

—should be on the ground floor with the elves. Or outside with the garden gnomes.

She completed the journey, and stood in front of a carved wooden door. Mippy was saying something about quickly getting her into bed.

Hermione laughed. Yes, please. As quick as possible. Let's get this over with.

Mippy pushed open the door. And Hermione was met with a lush suite. Cream walls lined with gold. Deep carpets. A sitting area across from the door with a lit fireplace. Two deep wingback chairs in front of the fire. To the right, an arched opening in the wall led to the largest bed she'd ever seen. Cream canopy curtains with flecks of gold hung down from the posts, and more pillows than she could count littered the headboard.

She stepped into the suite, and found bookshelves lining the wall to her right. She didn't let her eyes linger on the texts. They weren't for her.

None of it was for her.

She wondered whose room this was? Perhaps it was just a spare bedroom so she wouldn't defile the sheets in the master suite.

Mippy was speaking to her, but she couldn't hear. The sound of wind rushing between her ears. The elf closed the door. And then Hermione was alone.

The bed looked decadent. And she was so tired. But she refused to sleep in it, to get comfortable in the bed she'd be attacked in.

She moved into the bedroom, running her fingers over the curtains and bedposts. Turning to the bookshelves, she found fiction and non-fiction. Muggle and Wizard. Classics and Modern. Testing a theory, she reached out, placing one finger on the spine of Huckleberry Finn.

Nothing. So she was allowed to touch the books. She ran her fingers over every spine, waiting for something to happen. Nothing.

Her shoulder ached. She held her arm in front of her chest, supporting the weight, and continued through the bedroom suite. On the far side of the bed there was a door. To the bathroom probably. She inched her way toward it, keeping her eyes on the bedroom door.

She pushed open the wood door and gasped, pain squeezing through her shoulder.

Marble and brass everywhere. A clawfoot bathtub in the middle of the room. Lush towels and delicate lighting. She turned and jumped at the sight of her own reflection. She eyed herself critically, pale and thin, still in the gold shift dress Yaxley had put her in.

Her diet of fruit and bread had not been kind to her.

She turned away, leaving the luscious bathroom. The bed called to her again, but she still resisted. Moving back to sitting room, she examined the far wall of windows, light curtains draped over every frame. She pulled one back and found that she had the same view as the window they'd passed. The gazebo and the pond.

The bookshelf puzzled her. She traced the spines until she plucked a book from the shelves, checking the antique clock on the middle shelf. Nearing midnight.

She took A Tale of Two Cities to the chairs near the fireplace, choosing the one facing the door, and she sat, flipping pages, eyes scanning between the words and the door handle.

Madame Defarge was knitting by the time a knock rapped on her door.

Hermione froze. She watched the door handle, waiting for it to turn.

Another knock. This time louder.

She shut her book and stood, moving behind her chair, squeezing the wingback.

The door open swiftly, and Narcissa Malfoy stepped through. Her eyes landed on Hermione, and she stopped.

Hermione's heart beat in her fingertips. She was wandless. And in this woman's home. Her throat choked on the dry air leaving her lungs, and she took a slow breath, ready for whatever this woman wanted to do to her.

Narcissa Malfoy's lips turned up in a gentle smile. "Hello, Miss Granger."

Hermione waited. And Narcissa stared at her, eyes taking in her short dress, her thin skin.

"Please excuse me for barging in." Narcissa gestured to the door. "You did not answer when I knocked and I was concerned that..." She trailed off. "Well, Mippy told me you were ill on your way in."

Hermione took measured breaths, waiting.

Narcissa tilted her head, seeing the book in the chair.

"Dickens is one of my favorites too."

Hermione blinked at her, her stomach twisting in knots. Perhaps she'd be punished for touching the books.

"I apologize I wasn't here to greet you. I had no idea you were on your way until a few hours ago. And I had some business to take care of." Narcissa folded her hands in front of her, examining her. And then her eyes were on the room, taking in the bookshelves like she'd never seen them before.

She looked back to Hermione. "Are you alright, Miss Granger? Are you harmed?"

Hermione took a sharp breath, feeling the air sting her lungs. Her eyes watered with tears she promised herself she wouldn't cry in front of this woman just because she was being kind. She still might take it all back.

Narcissa Malfoy waited. Patient and calm. Hermione swallowed and brought her hand to her throat, tapping a finger against her larynx. She shook her head and turned her eyes down on the carpet.

A moment passed, and then—"Finite Incantatem."

Hermione startled and looked up. Narcissa was replacing her wand into her robes, pressing her lips tight in a way that was so familiar. In a way that Draco did whenever he found fault.

Narcissa took a deep breath and said, "Let's start again? Hello, Miss Granger. I am Mrs. Malfoy. You may call me Narcissa."

Hermione swallowed painfully, lubricating her unused throat. "Hello," she croaked.

Narcissa stepped forward, coming to the other wingback chair. "Are you injured, Miss Granger?"

"I have..." Her voice pulled thin, like strings about to snap. "I have a dislocated shoulder that they reset. And I have a concussion."

Narcissa stared at her for a moment, and then: "Mippy!"

Hermione jumped. The girl elf popped through.

"Missus!"

"Miss Granger has an injured shoulder and a concussion. Please tend to it."

"Oh!" Mippy turned to face her. "Hermione Miss! Tell Mippy you is sick! Tell Mippy and she will fix it!"

Hermione nodded, not bothering telling the elf about her voice.

"And Mippy, have Plumb fix some tea, if you please."

Mippy popped away, returning three seconds later with potions and a drawstring pouch. She directed Hermione to sit in the chair she was gripping with her nails. Narcissa floated into the second chair. An older elf popped in and delivered tea service while Mippy handed Hermione a potion for the concussion, and started spreading a healing paste on her shoulder. As she scurried to place a Dreamless Sleep potion on the bedside table, Hermione glanced at Narcissa, who was sipping her tea patiently. Watching her.

"Would you like some tea, Miss Granger?"

Hermione stared darkly at the teapot, imagining all sorts of dark potions inside. Perhaps Narcissa had already ingested the antidote.

Hermione shook her head. "No, thank you, Mrs. Malfoy." Her voice scratched along her tongue, begging for something warm to soothe itself.

Narcissa seemed to follow her thoughts. Her lips turned down. "I suppose you won't accept any biscuits either?" She sent her a smirk. "Even if I assure you that I have far more interesting methods of dealing with an enemy?"

Hermione flushed and looked down at her lap. Her dress was all the way to the tops of her thighs, and she pressed her legs together, pulling at the fabric.

Narcissa stood. "Night clothes, yes?" She moved to the wardrobe inside the bedroom area, and muttered to herself, "If I'm not mistaken..." She opened the wardrobe. Hermione watched her face and detected a resigned sadness. Narcissa reached into the closet, then paused and glanced at Hermione. She reached a different direction and pulled out a matching pajama set. Satin, it seemed. She laid the satin trousers and long-sleeved button-up pajamas across the bed.

"Get some rest, Miss Granger," Narcissa said. "If you do find yourself hungry, or in need of any more medications, please call for Mippy."

The little elf nodded her head vigorously next to the tea service, ears flopping dangerously close to the sugar bowl.

She would not sleep in that bed. Not until she knew what was expected of her. With her concussion gone, all thoughts were supposed to be rational now.

Mippy cleared the tea as Narcissa moved to the doorway.

"Mrs. Malfoy," said Hermione, her heart thundering. "When am I to expect a visitor?"

Blunt. To the point. Perhaps Narcissa would appreciate that, despite the fact that Hermione may be asking about her own husband.

Narcissa's blue eyes hardened into ice, much closer to her son's hue. She folded her hands delicately in front of her waist.

"Let me be quite clear, Miss Granger." Hermione felt a chill dance down her spine, bracing herself for some kind of harsh fact, something about her place in this world now. "You are now under the protection of Narcissa Malfoy. No one will lay a finger on you in this house."

And with a stern lift of her brow, Narcissa Malfoy swept from the room, taking her doting house elf with her.

Hermione remained frozen for a minute before collapsing in her chair, mind racing. Absorbing.

It could be lies, of course. Something to make her trust the Malfoy matriarch. Something to settle her into security before the attack.

But there were biscuits on the end table. Pajamas that seemed to be hers. A miniature library at her disposal. And a bed. A bed that she was not meant to share.

Hermione stood. Looking around the room again. It was palatial, really. A guest suite meant for someone to be more than comfortable. Meant for someone to find no reason to leave, she realized.

Books, a private bath, a sitting area, and an attentive elf.

It was the nicest cell she could have hoped for.

She peeled the gold dress off, letting it pool on the floor. Slipping into the nightclothes was like cutting through butter, the satin warming to her skin with some kind of charm. She plucked the gold dress off the ground and paced to the fireplace, tossing the fabric inside and watching it burn away.

She approached the bed and paused. Fourteen pillows. That's what it looked like. Creams and golds. She peeled back the sheets, expecting to find a horse's head or some Muggle nonsense. Just a fluffy, welcoming mattress.

She stretched up on her tiptoes, folding herself into the bed, and still nothing happened. The mattress and pillows accepted her weight, like they had been waiting for her for some time.

She looked to the door, almost two room's lengths from the bed. She had a perfect view of it here, against the pillows. She lifted the Dreamless Sleep potion Mippy had left her, uncorked it and sniffed. It smelled like the real thing.

Under the protection of Narcissa Malfoy.

The same Narcissa Malfoy who had snuck into the castle to find her son as the Dark Lord boasted his victory from the courtyard. The same woman who'd talked of escaping, even as her side's army killed the generals from Hermione's.

This is the safest place for you, Granger.

Perhaps Zabini was right. Perhaps all wasn't lost. Only time would tell.

Hermione drank the potion. She set the vial down on the bedside table and lay on her side, eyes catching on a jewelry box lined in brass. Her eyes began to fall shut as she reached out, opening the lid, finding its blue velvet interior empty.

She woke slowly, her body trying to drag her mind back into sleep for a few minutes. She couldn't remember the last time she'd slept in a real bed. The cots in the tent weren't as comfortable as this, and Harry snored so loud she was afraid he'd rupture the Protection Spells—

Her eyes snapped open, staring at an unfamiliar wall in an unfamiliar bed. She hadn't moved in the night, and she still lay on her side, facing the empty potion bottle. She bolted upright, searching the room. She was alone. Daylight streaming in through the large windows and cream curtains.

She slipped out of bed, peeking around corners to make sure there was no one hiding. Slithering into the bathroom, she used the toilet, splashed water on her face. The large clawfoot tub in the center of the marble floor called her to slip into the suds and drift away.

She shook her head, blinking away the elegance of the suite and refocusing. Weapons. Exits.

The drawers in the vanity held lush towels and hair potions. She found a tail comb with a sharp end for styling and pocketed it.

Still, no one intruding upon her space when she exited the bathroom. She checked the clock on the bookshelf. Barely 7AM.

The wardrobe called to her as she remembered Narcissa's expression upon opening it. Some kind of displeased acceptance. Hermione pulled the doors open, finding hangers upon hangers of clothing — an extension charm widening and deepening the space. To the left, a second pair of pajamas like the ones she had on, only in flannel. A few long nightdresses, followed by shorter ones. None too flashy. Then robes upon robes upon robes of varying colors, lengths, and fabrics. At the end, jumpers and other informal wear. She pulled the drawers at the base of the wardrobe and found jeans.

Hermione frowned. What kind of guests did the Malfoys usually have in this room? Surely no one who needed denims. She opened the top drawer on the right. Cotton knickers in pale shades. A few bras in the same. A few sports bras.

Whoever it was who usually stayed here was prepared for everything. The bottom drawer held shoes for all weather; trainers and boots.

She let her fingers drift across the fabric of the robes as she pushed the drawers back in, and she jumped when a thought crossed her mind.

Was this Pansy's room?

She glanced at the bed with its creams and golds. She looked to the bookcase with its Muggle books. She took in the fabrics in front of her, and cataloged the knickers.

None of this screamed Pansy Parkinson. Pansy wore red lipstick to the breakfast table, and never needed to reapply throughout the day. Pansy would never be caught dead in pale colors, especially her knickers. And Pansy once asked Daphne Greengrass in third year if Muggles knew how to read. Hermione knew she wasn't joking. No, this wasn't Pansy's space.

She shut the drawers, memorizing the placement of the belts, and moved to the windows, finally pushing aside the soft material and peering out into the grounds. Like she'd guessed, the pond sparkled from this view. The gazebo attracted the early morning fog like bubbles in a glass, and just beyond the gates that encompassed the Manor, she could see the sun dappling the ground. Just to her left, a balcony attached to her sitting room.

Hermione blinked. There must be a door. How far was the drop? How much length would the curtains and bedsheets give her?

The door handle rattled, and Hermione spun as Lucius Malfoy entered her suite, eyes landing on her at the window. She clutched the curtains in her fingers, one hand sliding slowly to the comb in her pocket.

Lucius's eyes were abruptly pulled from her as he looked around the room, gaze landing on the bookshelves, the sitting area. He paused on the bed, sheets twisted from her sleep. His grey eyes snapped to her again.

His lips pulled up into an echo of a smirk. "Welcome to Malfoy Manor, Miss Granger."

She felt her heartbeat pressing into the gauzy curtains, her fingers curled. He stood between herself and the door. And if there was a way onto this balcony, how quickly could she sprint out and hurtle over the edge. Grass or stones below?

He tilted his head, examining her, waiting for a response that didn't come. His eyes flicked over her satin pajamas, over the rumpled bedding.

"I see you've made yourself quite at home."

He moved into the room, strolling between the wingback chairs, examining the carpets, moving to the drapes.

Where Narcissa was cautious and warm, Lucius was decisive and cold, inscrutable. He slithered into the sleeping space, eyes turning over the bed curtains and landing on the wardrobe, still open from her investigations. He pulled the doors open wide and just like his wife, an impossible expression spread across his lips. She'd never seen someone frown a smile.

"All the correct size, I presume," he muttered.

Hermione guessed that Lucius Malfoy was not the kind of man who muttered things aloud by accident.

He shut the wardrobe with a click. And turned to her, standing between her and the bed. The comb teeth clicked between her fingertips.

"Sixty-five thousand Galleons," he said, drawing the number out like a question. But she knew it wasn't. "My, my, Miss Granger. What a handsome prize you make."

He wanted her to interact with him. She swallowed her terror, and decided to play his game. "Were you in attendance last night, Mr. Malfoy?"

He pulled a deep breath through his nostrils, the hint of a sneer on his lips. "I have no interest in slave-trading. I have enough house elves." He clasped his hands behind his back and looked out the window at the view she had been enjoying.

She remembered strong arms, grabbing her around the waist and lifting her, taking her somewhere. If Lucius hadn't been there, it had been Draco. Where would he have taken her?

And why did he want her in the first place? And how had he obtained her?

She looked up from the thoughtful gaze she had been sending the carpets to find Lucius Malfoy still before her, watching her. His eyes swept over her body, and she shivered, glad to be rid of the gold dress and in sexless nightclothes.

"How do you like your accommodations, Miss Granger?" His eyes pierced her, his words digging into her skin.

She wondered if he wanted her to misbehave. If he wanted her to spit at him and tell him she'd prefer a cell. To act like a Mudblood beast. She looked into his grey eyes, the same grey eyes that had sneered at her for seven years.

She may be under Narcissa Malfoy's protection, but she was also under Lucius Malfoy's roof.

"It's lovely, Mr. Malfoy," she responded icily. "Thank you for having me for a visit." She lifted a brow at him.

He returned the expression, a slow curl to his lips. "Any time, Miss Granger. The weather is lovely in the autumn," he said, voice lilting, teasing. A pause, and then his features hardened. "I do hope you'll still be here then."

A chill crossed her skin, but she was careful not to blink. She burned to ask him questions. Why am I here? Why did Dolohov give me up? What am I expected to do? But she knew she wouldn't get the answers she wanted. Just more games.

He stepped toward her, now only several paces away, and extended his hand. "Might I have whatever's in your pocket?"

She swallowed, and he saw it. He smiled.

She withdrew the comb and placed it into his waiting hand. He grinned, and then broke the sharp tail off. He handed her back the benign piece, looked to her hair, and said, "You'll need this."

She scowled at him. Such strong resemblance to his son and the easy way his insults would flow. Her fingers curled around the comb, teeth cutting into her palm.

"My son paid a heavy price to obtain you, Miss Granger." His eyes traveled down her jaw, down her neck. She shivered. "Do try to show your... gratitude." He whispered the word across the air like a kiss against her skin. He smirked at her, and swept to the door.

Her eyes burned into his back, and she thought of Parvati and the Baxter girl. Penelope Clearwater curled in a corner refusing to eat. The slice to her abdomen. The last glimpse of Ginny as she was dragged away.

She couldn't stop the words. Like bile creeping up. "My gratitude?"

He paused with one hand on the door. "Of course, Miss Granger." A raised brow. "You have been saved."

He exited, shutting the door behind him.

~*~

Relying on Narcissa Malfoy's supposed protection wasn't going to get her anywhere. It wasn't protection she needed—it was a way out.

After she was sure Lucius wouldn't be returning, she pulled Hogwarts, A History off the shelves, and sat in the chair facing the door, reading absently while keeping an eye on the entrance.

At 8AM on the dot, a knock sounded from the door. Before Hermione could release her tense shoulders or contemplate what horrors could await her, a treble voice said, "Remmy is here for breakfast!"

Hermione blinked. She stood, placing the book delicately on the chair. "Come in?" It sounded more like a question than she liked.

The door pushed open, and an older female elf tottered in, a tray hovering behind her. The elf — Remmy — frowned. "Mistress says Remmy must knock."

Hermione stared at her, wondering how she was to reply. Remmy scowled and sent the tray barreling toward the end table near her wingback chair. She spun and wobbled out the door. Before she could close it, Hermione said, "Thank you, Remmy."

Remmy turned, eyes squinted, and nodded once before shutting the door behind her.

Beans and toast. Eggs, juice, bacon, grilled tomatoes. Pastries and tarts. And tea service.

Hermione's stomach twisted and rumbled. She hadn't eaten since yesterday — an apple slice Luna had handed her in the morning. Narcissa had claimed she wouldn't poison her last night, but Hermione knew of at least seven potions that could be baked into the pastries or stirred in with the tea that could alter her perceptions, relax her mind or muscles, or leave blank spots in her memories — all of which were tasteless and odorless.

She wandered into the bathroom suite to hide from the delicious scent of the food and stared at the tub. It had several magical taps for bubbles and scents. The tub was deep and wide, and much more luxurious than Hermione had seen in the last year. Her last decent bath had been last summer, before Bill and Fleur's wedding.

But she thought of the way Lucius Malfoy had swept into the suite, like her privacy meant nothing to him.

She quickly turned to the large shower, draped a towel over the side, and stripped. The water hit the perfect temperature, and she spent thirty seconds inside, scrubbing and washing only the essential areas, skipping her hair. She turned off the water, grabbed the towel, and wrapped herself tightly. She stood, dripping on the bathmat, waiting for something to happen.

She poked her head into the bedroom, seeing she had no visitors. She dried off, twisted the towel around her again, and waddled to the wardrobe. She assumed the owner of the robes and jumpers and denims wouldn't mind her borrowing a few things until...

Until... she didn't know what. Until her new clothing was provided? Perhaps a uniform, so she could join the elves in the kitchens? That's if Narcissa's protection against "visitors" was to be believed.

She plucked a pair of light-colored jeans from the drawer, and dragged her fingers across the jumpers until she found a fabric that sung "comfort" to her. White, soft, and fuzzy. She considered for a moment, and then snatched up a pair of cotton knickers from the drawer on the right.

Tucking herself behind the wardrobe door, she dropped the towel, shimmied into the knickers, dragged the fuzzy jumper over her head, and scrambled into the jeans. She was pleased when the zip and button closed perfectly around her hips.

She twisted to look into a mirror on the opposite wall, finding a scrappy young woman with dirty hair in somebody else's jeans and jumper. It would do.

She bent to put away her towel, but it disappeared, like they used to at Hogwarts. Elf magic.

Hermione made her bed, washed the empty potion vial from the night before, folded and rehung her nightclothes, and reshelved the books she had taken down. Studying the balcony doors again, she tried the handle tentatively. It turned. The doors swept open, out to the world, and she put one foot out, testing.

She stepped through with no issues. And when the light greeted her skin, she realized she had not seen the sun since the day before the Final Battle. Closing her eyes and breathing in the outdoors, she enjoyed the daylight.

Several house elves watered the hedges that lined the lawn. She thought of Dobby and how his life would have been here. Leaning her arms on the balcony, she wondered if any of the other elves wanted to be free. Maybe she could use that.

To her left, another rounded balcony. Separated, but close. She tilted over the railing, looking at what would break her fall should she try to tie her bedsheets together. Some unforgiving-looking bushes and decorative stones. If it was necessary, she could make the drop.

She stood in the doorway, facing the suite, enjoying the sun on the back of her neck. Ignoring the plate of food again, she stared at the walls. And she realized there wasn't a single portrait in the guest room. A few landscapes and artistic swirls, but no immortalized tattletale to watch her every move.

Privacy.

She wondered how long that would last.

Two swift knocks on the door. She waited, hands braced on the doorframe. No elf voice announcing itself.

Hermione shut the doors to the balcony, and moved quickly to the door, heart pounding, pulling it open.

Narcissa Malfoy in flowing blue robes, like water in a lake, and a smile on her lips.

"Good morning, Miss Granger."

She stared at her. "Hello."

Narcissa swept her gaze down her body, eyeing her denims and bare feet. Hermione blushed.

"I was wondering if you would fancy a walk. Perhaps a tour of the Manor?"

Hermione blinked. In her twelve hours in this room, she had not once considered that she would be permitted out of it. The suite had everything she needed. A gilded cage.

"A tour? I... er, yes," she stammered under Narcissa's shrewd gaze. A tour could be useful. Perhaps she could scour the grounds for vulnerabilities. "Shall I change into something more suitable?"

A flicker of something flashed in Narcissa's eyes, and the corner of her lips twitched. "No, dear. Please be comfortable." Hermione blinked again. It felt like she'd done something right, when in fact, she'd done nothing at all. Whatever game Narcissa was playing, Hermione was ten paces behind. She'd have to change that.

She ran to look for socks and shoes, before Narcissa could change her mind. The trainers in the closet were just her size, which was lucky. Months on the run had taught her how to pull on and lace trainers in under five seconds, and she thanked Merlin for it today while Narcissa Malfoy waited in the doorway like she was a guest in her own home.

Narcissa smiled when she reappeared, but before they could depart, her eyes caught on the tray of food. She pressed her lips together, and after a pause, said, "Are you finished with your tray, Miss Granger?"

Hermione swallowed and nodded. "I don't have much of an appetite." Her stomach growled on cue.

Narcissa tilted her head at the tray. "Would you mind if we took some of those jam tarts with us? They're my favorite."

Hermione shook her head and went to retrieve several tarts from the bowl, wrapping a napkin around them. Narcissa took them from her, saying something about the recipe, but Hermione was staring at the sugary morsels, trying to keep her knees from giving out. She was so hungry.

Hermione watched as Narcissa chewed, wondering if this was some kind of trick. Some way to get her trust. Narcissa pointed out one of her favorite paintings, and then suddenly the tarts were extended to Hermione.

"Take one, dear." Hermione reached for a strawberry tart, fingers shaking. She had no intention of eating it – just being polite. But then Narcissa said, "Excellent choice. Not a drop of poison in that one."

Her eyes snapped up to find Narcissa smirking at her before popping a raspberry tart between her lips. And maybe it was the satisfied hum from her lips around the crunching, or perhaps the clever way she had tricked Hermione into taking food from her, or maybe it was because she was just so hungry. But Hermione bit into the corner of the tart, knowing that she shouldn't. But also knowing that she wouldn't survive long if she couldn't trust the food.

The sugar danced across her tongue as they passed the large window overlooking the pond in silence, and even though Hermione had a similar view from the guest room, she still couldn't take her eyes off the sight.

"Lucius's mother cultivated the gardens." Hermione turned to see Narcissa following her gaze. They paused in front of the window, and Narcissa pointed. "The gazebo was built for her wedding day. She took extra care to keep the surrounding plots as beautiful as possible – tending to the pond, caring for the peacocks. She was very set on having all future Malfoy weddings on the grounds in the gazebo, carrying on the tradition."

Hermione swallowed, choosing her words carefully. "I'm sure your wedding was beautiful, Mrs. Malfoy."

Narcissa stared out the window. "It was," she hummed. "It was at the Chateau de Chambord." Her lips quirked and her eyebrow lifted. "My family has traditions, as well."

A shocked breath pushed from her lungs as the words sunk in. The older woman sent a satisfied smirk towards the gazebo, and gestured for Hermione to continue on with her. As they descended the stairs, Hermione meditated on whether Lucius Malfoy had met his match. Perhaps Lucius didn't hold as much power as he liked to believe.

Narcissa led her out the front doors into the May morning. They turned right at the bottom of the steps, winding around the perimeter of the Manor while Narcissa showed her the flowers she'd brought over from Norway, the tree that had survived the battle on the Manor in 1643, the seam in the exterior wall where the expansion had begun.

They stumbled across an old hunched elf weeding the bluebells on the north side of the Manor, and Narcissa stopped. "Hix, dear. This is Miss Granger. She will be staying with us." Hix nodded a greeting. "Anything we can do to make her stay more comfortable, we will endeavor to do it."

Hermione's brows drew together, lips pursed. Perhaps Narcissa meant to lull her into complacency as she joked about wedding plans, crooned about shrubbery, and offered her tea in comfortable chairs. But there was an echo of "indefinite" in her words, and a shiver of "custody" in her tone. Reminding her of exactly where she was. Who she was.

They moved away from Hix and the bluebells and Hermione scowled at her feet. She need to focus. She needed to find a way for Narcissa to show her the perimeter. They arrived at the bank of the lake in a tight silence. And just as she opened her mouth to question Narcissa, she spoke.

"Europe is a catastrophe at the moment."

She looked up at the blonde woman, startled. Narcissa glanced around for eavesdroppers before continuing.

"I cannot free you, Miss Granger." Hermione's breath caught. "Even if I thought it would be safe for you on the run, I could not. If you were to... 'escape,' Draco would be punished for it."

Narcissa Malfoy pressed her lips together, looking out past the hedges, and Hermione felt a cold wind inside of her, settling around her ribs.

"So," Narcissa sighed, standing tall. "We will keep you under our care, and we will keep you comfortable. I am sorry for all that you've lost, but I cannot offer you more than the assurance that Malfoy Manor is the safest place for you."

It wasn't the first time she'd heard those words, and she understood them no better the second time.

Even if she were to believe that, why was she the one to be safe? Why was she special?

She took a deep breath, heart hammering in her ears. "How is that?"

Narcissa looked at her, blue eyes piercing. "Because I've had those animals in my house, snarling and pissing and prowling. I know what they do, I know how they think." She sniffed, and Hermione was reminded of the Narcissa Malfoy she'd met before, nose in the air, above everyone else. "You're in no such danger here, I assure you. The Malfoy men may not be saints, but they worship their women fervently."

Hermione fought the urge to scoff. His woman? Was that what she was now?

Perhaps Narcissa misunderstood this situation. Perhaps Narcissa thought there was more to this than… whatever there was to this. But she seemed to genuinely believe that Hermione was not in danger here, that she was not purchased with the intention of defiling and debasing her.

Lucius on the other hand… Her earlier conversation with him gave her no answers either, and left her feeling more like a bought whore than she had the entire week prior.

Hermione stopped in front of a rose bush blooming the most perfect white roses. She bit her lip, debating whether to tell Narcissa the truth: that she had no idea why Draco had bought her. But Narcissa spoke before she could pluck up the courage. "You are welcome to come out here any time you like. You needn't have a chaperone in this house."

Hermione swiveled her head to her. "That's... That's very kind, Mrs. Malfoy. Is there anywhere I should steer clear of?"

"Besides the common decency of staying out of other's private quarters – of which I am positive you possess – nowhere is barred to you. We have no mad ex-wives in our attics."

Hermione tripped on a pebble, or something else imaginary. "You know Brontë?"

"I do." Narcissa smiled. "The Manor's library is too large to only house wizarding books."

Narcissa walked on. Hermione's heart lifted for the first time since someone else's name had been tattooed on her arm.

"That's right," she said, like it was detail she'd forgotten. "The Manor has a library."

~*~

Hermione wasn't sure she had smiled once in the past year. Not a smile from her heart. Not a grin that began inside of her, like a star bursting apart.

The library at Malfoy Manor was the size of a small bookshop. Perhaps a large bookshop, as Hermione couldn't see to the back wall. Tall as a grand ballroom with stacks reaching high to the ceiling, Hermione couldn't breathe for the love she felt for one room. How long had it been since she'd set foot in a library?

"Oh dear. It seems I've lost you."

She turned from running her fingers across a shelf to see Narcissa smiling at her. "I'm sorry. I do like books very much."

"Yes, I've heard." Narcissa tilted her head. Hermione was surprised that this detail stuck out to her after what she assumed were years of moaning and complaining from her son. Before she could consider further, Narcissa continued, "Can I bring you anything while you browse? Tea?"

A crack and Mippy was there at her hip.

"Mippy brings Miss tea and biscuits. What does Miss want for tea?" Mippy twirled her ear around her waxy finger, in a way Dobby used to.

Hermione smiled in spite of herself. "Milk and honey please."

"Does Miss want three honey spoons?" Mippy's eyes blinked, lashes bouncing.

"Yes, that's perfect. Thank you, Mippy." Hermione turned back to the shelf.

"Mippy knows how to make that. That is how Master Draco takes tea too!"

Hermione's fingers slipped on the book she was replacing.

Fuck.

"Is it? How strange."

She felt Narcissa's eyes on the back of her neck. And she wished a book would just open and swallow her.

"Mippy," Narcissa's voice chimed, "bring biscuits and more jam tarts for Miss Granger." And then in a theatrical whisper: "Not the poisoned ones."

Hermione blushed as the little elf shrieked and babbled, "Poisoned? Missus? Poisoned?"

"Shall I leave you to browse?" Narcissa asked.

Leave her? In freedom?

"I would like that very much. If you'll allow it."

"Miss Granger, I've already told you," she said kindly. "You are free to move through the Manor."

Hermione nodded. "Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy."

"Please, dear, you may call me Narcissa."

Hermione watched Narcissa Malfoy sweep to the library doors, face tingling with surprise.

"Er, you may call me Hermione. If you like."

Narcissa smiled, a gentle quirk of her lips. The doors shut behind her with a click.

She stood in the center of the lower section and spun in slow circles for several minutes, waiting for something to jump out at her. Waiting for the books to rebel at her presence and begin a nightmare crawl towards her to eat the Mudblood alive.

She took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of books, of resourcefulness, usefulness.

Narcissa made it sound like she could return here again, but still Hermione wanted to zoom through the stacks, and bleed the Malfoy library dry of information.

There was a catalogue in the corner of the room where one could ask for a subject or a title and the books would organize themselves, either by guiding you with fairy lights or bringing the books directly to you. Hogwarts had a similar system but Pince disabled it years ago when she realized students were using it to smack each other in the head with a well-timed request for a zooming book.

She steered clear of the catalogue, not wanting any traces left of what she was researching.

Before she could tumble into the stacks towards the Dark Arts, she found a shelf that contained only seven books, organized together in the center. Red spines glinted at her, and she reached forward, pulling the first to her.

Undesirable No. 1

by Lance Gainsworth

She gasped. She turned the other books to her and found the rest of her favorite modern magical book series. The red spines were from the collector's edition. She ran her fingers down the first, and pulled the cover open. There, on the first page, was a personal note.

Draco Malfoy,

Thank you very much for your letter. It means so much to me to hear from you. Please accept the first five, with a promise to deliver the last two upon completion.

Keep fighting,

Lance Gainsworth

She carefully closed the book, and replaced it on the shelf before her shaking fingers dropped it.

Draco Malfoy was a fan of her favorite book series. A very large fan, if he'd written mail to the author. This didn't shock her too greatly; she'd found his name in more than a few of the fiction books she'd check out of the library. But this was...

She was now itching to read them again. But she couldn't take the red copies. They were too precious. She could break the spines and smudge the lacquered covers...

She stepped back, turning to the upper landing. She couldn't even see the back wall of the library, but there was a large sunny window to the right, warming the entire room. Hermione climbed the six stairs and turned around a stack to find rows and rows of books. She gasped, loud in the quiet hum.

It must have been hours that she browsed. Mippy popped back with a tray of tea, sandwiches, and biscuits. She conjured a table and placed the tray down in the middle of the stacks.

"Mistress tells Mippy to tell Miss Hermione to take as much books as Miss wants."

Mippy left. She had only pulled down two books, so she set them on the little table next to the biscuits. Hermione had been trying to limit her selections, afraid of imposing, and despite what Mippy said, she assumed "as much books as Miss wants" was not the proper thing to do. She would probably ask for a bed to be installed in this corner if she was really to take as many as she wanted.

She plucked a strawberry tart, nibbling on the end carefully, wondering what Madam Pince would think of serving tarts and biscuits and tea around the books.

Madam Pince was probably dead. And Hermione was living in a small fantasy.

The scone suddenly tasted like ash. She placed it down on a saucer.

What was she doing? Sifting through priceless first editions and turning the pages of long lost copies when her friends and Order members were dead or dying. Hermione looked down at her teacup. Maybe there was something in the tea after all. Some kind of complacency drug.

Hermione turned to the shelves, her source of comfort and truth, and dove in, pulling down dark tomes that she'd never seen in her life – each one humming against her fingers, trying to get her filthy hands off of them.

She found chapters on Horcruxes in record time. The first book she grabbed was cited as a source in much of her Horcrux research. She wished she could cross reference with the book finder, but she didn't want a trail of Horcrux research leading back to her. She didn't know exactly where the Malfoys stood. How much did they know about Voldemort's plans – his power?

And how could she find out if Nagini was still alive?

Hermione had just turned to explore the back wall when she heard the doors to the library open. Narcissa must be back. She wondered what time it was.

She reshelved the three dark books she'd pulled down, memorizing their locations, and went to her teacup, flipping back through her wizarding fiction books and peering between the bookshelves to the library doors.

A pair of shoulders and a trim waist under a black jumper, black trousers and boots, and short blond locks that did not belong to Narcissa Malfoy. She slapped her hand over her mouth, watching as Draco hummed something to the book finder.

She hadn't seen him this close since the Room of Requirement. Since the hallways after Harry died. His hair fell over his eyes as he waited for the book finder to glow. A book on a shelf three feet from her slowly pulled into the aisle, hovering, waiting to be plucked. Hermione watched between the stacks as Draco turned towards the upper-landing, long legs carrying him quickly in her direction.

She clutched her books to her chest, waiting, breathing. It was like a car crash. A flying accident waiting to happen. She should say something. Announce her presence. Maybe drop something—

He turned the corner, swiveling toward her, and she saw the exact moment he registered her presence. Like an electric shock, seizing all of his muscles. Her tongue was dry as his mouth opened in a silent gasp. He braced himself on the bookcase nearest him.

And then very quickly it all went away. His mouth closed, his shoulders dropped, and his eyes shut off. He stared at her.

She felt her chest begging for air, the covers of the books pressing into her fingers.

"Your mother brought me here," her voice breathed, barely audible.

He took in her white jumper and denims, then back to her eyes.

"Have you finished with all of your other books?" he asked, voice hollow and low. He lifted a taunting brow.

She didn't know what he meant for a moment. She brought no possessions with her. Clearly he remembered this.

"The books in your room," he clarified, sending her a look that she recalled from Hogwarts whenever he needed to explain something to Crabbe or Goyle.

"N-no." That was all she said, watching him scowl at her. He shifted, like he was ready to run. He moved swiftly to the center aisle, grabbed his book from the air, and pivoted away to the landing stairs. Before he disappeared, she burst out, "What am I expected to do?"

He turned around to face her. His fingers twitched. "Do?"

"Yes," she said tightly, feeling a familiar headache behind her eye that only Draco Malfoy could bring on. "Should I... join the elves in the kitchen? Work the grounds? Or maybe assist your mother with... whatever it is she does?"

She listed all the things she hoped for. The things that she could stomach doing for the rest of her life. He continued to stare at her, and she wondered if she was supposed to suggest other tasks she could be doing.

"You want homework, Granger?"

Her cheeks heated and she narrowed her eyes at him. "No," she snapped.

"You want to pick up after the peacocks? Make my meals?"

She huffed. "No. I want to throw the covers over my head and pretend I'm not living this nightmare, but—"

"Great," he said. "Do that." And without another glance at her, he swiveled and left.

She watched him take the stairs in two long strides, cutting sharply for the door, and yanking it open before vanishing.

Of all the idiotic—! Hermione huffed. Picking up after the peacocks? Really?

She took a deep breath, coming back to herself, coming back to her situation. It wouldn't do to rile herself up over such a small annoyance. Given her circumstances, her first interaction with her new master could have been much different. She should count herself lucky.

But what was the point of buying her if he had no opinion on how she spent her days? Would no one tell her why she was here? Each Malfoy had a different agenda it seemed, and her mind groaned under the pressure of these riddles.

About half an hour of agitated wandering later, Narcissa came to check on her, teased her lightly for only having three books, and offered to show Hermione the way back upstairs.

She really should have paid attention to memorize the path. She was allowed to visit the library again on her own, but her stomach twisted at the idea of running into Draco again.

Narcissa told her she would have the elves send up dinner in a few hours. There was a question Narcissa asked, but she didn't concentrate on it, instead, letting her mind drift over something Draco said.

Narcissa closed the door, and Hermione looked to the bookshelves.

Your books.

She ran her fingers over the spines.

Your room.

She looked at the bedroom suite. At the deeply comfortable bed. At the bookshelves. At the closet full of clothes exactly in her size.

Hermione felt foolish now for thinking this room would be taken from her at some point. For thinking someone else's clothes just happened to fit her nicely. There was so much she still didn't know, but at least she'd solved one problem. She moved to the bathroom and stared at the tub.

Her tub.

She had at least two hours before Narcissa said dinner would arrive.

Hermione took off the jeans, folding them nicely over the counter, pulled off the jumper, and brought a towel over to the edge of the tub. She started the taps. She turned on the bubbles.

And she washed it all away in her bathtub, in her suite in Malfoy Manor.

Breakfast appeared the next morning along with Narcissa Malfoy. She escorted Hermione out to the balcony while Remmy set up the breakfast tray and the tea service. She eyed the grounds, looking for weaknesses as Narcissa talked.

After a lull, Hermione thought she'd take a chance.

"I... I'm not sure you can answer this request," Hermione started, "but I was wondering about my friends."

Narcissa turned to her. "Yes?"

"Where are they?" She hesitated before asking, "What state are they in?"

Hermione sat still as stone as Narcissa Malfoy lifted a brow, opened her mouth, and stopped herself. "Hmm. Yes, I see..." she muttered.

"I only ask because I was unconscious for the Auction," Hermione said. "Up until my... bid." She looked down at the wide lawn.

"Yes, of course." Narcissa's eyes slid over her. "Naturally, you would be curious. I will do my best to get that information."

Hermione smiled in thanks, and when her eyes returned to her cranberry scone and tea, she felt nauseous with guilt.

What was Ginny having for breakfast today? When was the last time Luna had a cup of tea?

Where was Ron?

She spent the rest of her Sunday afternoon reading, looking out the window, in the bathtub. Just after Remmy arrived with her dinner tray, a knock rapped on her door.

"Come in," she said, standing for Narcissa like her mother taught her to.

Draco Malfoy opened the door.

Her heart stuttered against her ribs as his eyes skated across her face and shoulders.

So much taller than she remembered him. His skin was still pale and thin like sixth year, like he'd still not gotten a decent night's sleep. He wore black. Not his Death Eater uniform, but another black jumper. Black trousers and large boots. It was so similar to the outfit he wore in the library, as if this was his off-duty uniform.

His eyes roved over her room, landing on things she'd disturbed. The pile of books at the base of her bookshelves, waiting to be reshelved. The shoes she'd worn yesterday on her walk with Narcissa, now sitting next to her armoire. The rumpled way she'd left her bedsheets, even after trying to make the bed.

Hermione stood, hand on the back of her wingback chair, dinner half-eaten on the end table. His eyes finally landed on her again. She watched the quickest of flickers down to her Muggle denims and socks, fast as a blink.

"Mother says you have questions."

No. No, no, no, Narcissa. This was not what she wanted.

She swallowed, and the first question poured from her without thought. "Where is Pansy?"

He looked about as surprised as she felt. She wished she had a plan. Some way to ask the right questions.

He looked at the fire, slowly dwindling. "I gave Parkinson to Blaise Zabini. As a token of thanks and loyalty. She is in Italy now, under his watch."

His inflections and dead eyes meant to suggest that Blaise was the one receiving a gift for his loyalty. But maybe he didn't know Hermione had witnessed Pansy's rescue.

She nodded. One off the list.

"Ginny Weasley went to Avery?"

His eyes returned to hers, and he nodded.

"And Ron?"

He stared at her, unblinking. "Macnair purchased him. And shortly after, the Dark Lord requested him."

She took a slow breath. "And is he alive?"

"For now."

He watched it land on her, shivering her skin. She clenched her jaw and nodded. She wanted to ask more, to feel out how many of them had fallen in the courtyard. To maybe ask about Nagini in some way.

He began, "If that's all—"

"What about Arthur and Molly Weasley?"

He blinked at her. "Dead."

She suspected this. It didn't bring her peace, but at least she could nod, accept it, and deal with it later.

"Neville?"

He rolled his eyes in that very put-upon way he used for effect when he was younger. "Do you want me to make you a list, Granger?"

"Yes," she answered immediately, disregarding his sarcasm. "If you please."

He glared at her for a heartbeat, and then conjured a scroll and quill. She watched him perform a very complex spell to send his thoughts directly onto the page – the spell that had inspired the Quick-Quotes Quill. It required a trained mind whose thoughts could be directed and reduced to only one thing, instead of the extraneous thoughts one's brain floats to them. She'd only seen Snape use it before.

She studied him while his eyes concentrated on the page—exhausted, with dark circles and dry skin. The angles of his jaw and chin cut through his cheeks and neck, sharpening him like a blade. The lips she'd memorized were dry and cracked, but pulled into the contemplative pout she'd seen in class. He still held his shoulders back, arrogance and good posture slithering through all the cracks in his facade.

Her mind warred with itself, one half pitying him and looking for a way to comfort him, and the other wondering if his fatigue would give her an advantage.

The quill disappeared. He grabbed the scroll from the air and held it out to her. And it all came back to her. He was handing her a list of her friends' fates.

Neville went to the Carrows. Cho Chang and Seamus Finnigan to Mulciber. Oliver Wood to the Notts. Ron and Angelina Johnson to Macnair.

Her eyes skipped over the page, feeling there was something missing.

She looked up at him. "Luna Lovegood isn't on this list."

He stood frozen, no expression crossing his face.

"Lovegood is dead."

Hermione felt her heartbeat in her fingertips. A pair of pale blue eyes behind her lids every time she blinked. Blood-soaked teeth smiling at her, telling her to make the sacrifice.

She swallowed. "How?" Her voice cracked.

Draco looked over her shoulder, out the window behind her at the sunset. "She jumped from the roof of Macnair's estate. They found her body yesterday morning."

Her mind tumbled and swirled.

Macnair. She went to Macnair.

Luna was dead.

She should have let her die in the Ministry.

Remember? He said it would be better this way.

She looked back to Draco. His eyes were distant, staring out her window to the pond.

"She jumped because you told her to," Hermione hissed.

He turned back to her, his gaze cold. He didn't deny it.

"You told her that if there was an Auction, she should kill herself," she snarled. "Kill herself instead of fight."

His lips pressed together. "You seem to forget that Lovegood was a Ravenclaw, not a reckless Gryffindor." His eyes withered her. "She couldn't be talked into anything that didn't make absolute sense to her."

"Absolute sense?" Hermione repeated, feeling tears of grief threatening to spring. "So should I take myself to the tallest tower in Malfoy Manor as well? Maybe twist my sheets into a noose? Or I could always refuse to eat. Refuse food and water until I wither away—"

He stepped toward her. "I dare you to try." He sneered at her. "If you're really so miserable in your private suite, in your Muggle denims and jumpers, with your meals delivered three times a day—"

"Oh, thank you, Malfoy. For rescuing me—"

"Then be my fucking guest, Granger." He stepped into her again, and she felt the back of the tall chair pressing into her spine. "I have it on good authority that Macnair didn't brutalize Lovegood before she jumped. Better take your chances now before your circumstances change—"

Her hand was up, poised to strike before she stopped herself. Hitting him would be the most ill-advised action she could possibly take in her situation. His eyes glittered, scanning from her hand to her face, sizzling into her eyes and dropping down over her lips before sliding back.

"Are you stupid enough to do it, Granger?" His eyes flashed at her, something warm and daring.

Her fingers curled slowly, and she dropped her arm. She glared at his smug face, his eyes dripping over her and his lips pulling a slow grin.

She tore her gaze from his lips and said, "And will my circumstances change?"

She watched his eyes freeze over, like a glaze in a kiln, something opaque. A smirk that didn't reach his expressionless eyes.

"Play your cards right, Granger…"

And then his fingers drifted mockingly across her ribs.

She jerked and slithered away from him. "Get out."

A low chuckle as she turned to face the windows, dismissing him, smoothing out the wrinkled scroll held tight in her left hand.

"The Dark Lord requests an audience with you this evening."

A chill trickled down her spine, like ice water dumped over her head.

"Tell him I decline. But thanks." She spoke to the windows so he wouldn't see the way her eye twitched.

She heard a short breath of a laugh, and then, "I'll expect you downstairs in half an hour."

He didn't make a sound as he crossed the carpets, and it wasn't until the door clicked that she even knew he left.

Half an hour. That's all she had.

She memorized the scroll of her friends' names as the sun set on the Manor.

How does one prepare for an audience with the Dark Lord?

Her question was answered twenty-five minutes after Draco left when Mippy knocked on her door.

"Master Draco says you is to wear this."

Mippy held a scrap of black silk over her outstretched arms. It looked like a négligée. Lace across the bottom and top, short and low with thin straps.

When Hermione pulled the silk from the elf's fingers, Mippy twirled her ear and waited by the door.

"Thank you, Mippy." She didn't recognize the sound of her own voice.

The elf stayed in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot. "Mippy is to stay until Miss is changed. Then we is to go downstairs."

And just when Hermione thought she could get away with being obstinate.

Hermione marched into the bathroom, shucked her jeans, ripped her jumper off, and slid the silk over herself. It was as short as her gold shift dress, if not shorter. So, she was his whore. The mirror reflected the scowl and narrowed eyes of a sex slave. Her eyes caught on a fluffy robe hanging from a hook, and she considered flouncing downstairs completely covered. Or perhaps not going at all. Make him come back and drag her.

"Miss!" The elf was knocking, her voice plaintive.

Hermione frowned. Would Mippy be punished? Simply because she tried to delay the inevitable.

She took one last glance in the mirror to make sure she was covered, and then followed Mippy out of the room, fuming, down the stairs and into the Malfoy entryway.

Draco waited at the fireplaces for her. His eyes took in her attire as she descended—a quick glance at her bare legs, and then back to her face.

Perhaps he did want her. Perhaps something about her had attracted him.

He pulled at his sleeves, concentrating on the cuffs, and said, "You'll need to remove your bra."

Clinical. Like a doctor would.

She felt the blush rise in her cheeks. Her teeth parted to bite back, but she saw he was in his Death Eater robes. And just as he had changed into his uniform—his costume—it seemed she must as well.

She reached behind herself and struggled to unclasp and remove the bra under the silk. He concentrated on the stones below his feet as she handed it to Mippy.

The elf disappeared, and then it was just them again. But instead of feeling exposed, she felt ignored.

He moved to the front doors, not waiting for her to follow. She trudged behind him like a petulant child, down the steps, into the brisk air, and down the stone path as the cold pricked her skin, pulling her breasts into peaks. She glared at the back of him, covered in thick robes while she was forced into a scrap of silk. Holding onto that irritation, holding onto the cold so she wouldn't think about what was going to happen next.

He stood at the gates while she caught up, and then said, "Your left arm."

She held it out to him, and he wrapped his fingers around his signature. They walked through the gates, and she felt a burst of heat through her arm. And then it was over.

They walked to the top of a hill, his hand still on her arm, and then he Apparated them.

The gates of Hogsmeade popped into view first. A chilling cold crawled through her throat, clawing across her ribs and seizing her muscles.

Dementors.

She looked up, and found thousands.

She could just make out the moon past them, but they occluded the light, casting the grounds in darkness.

Draco held her elbow, gripping painfully as one Dementor swept down, dropping like a weight over her.

"Stay still," Draco demanded.

The Dementor swallowed the air around her, sucking at her essence. It turned to Draco, reaching a bony hand out for him.

He stared up into its hood, immovable.

With one last tug at her soul, the Dementor wafted away, joining its companions. Draco guided her forward, and she guessed the Dementors had cleared them.

A dozen of them hovered as they walked through the gates and turned onto the Hogwarts grounds.

The Forbidden Forest had grown outwards, creeping towards the castle as if the magic holding it back had died when they lost. The grass was dry and some places were still burning. It wasn't until they passed the fires that Hermione recognized the smell.

Burning bodies.

The corpses were unrecognizable, and she thanked Merlin for that. She shook the image loose from her head, the smell sticking to her like smoke.

Death Eaters in pairs of two walked broad circles around the forest edge, some of them nodding to Draco. He kept his eyes straight forward, hand wrapped around her arm.

As they walked the grounds, closer and closer to the castle, she felt her pulse spinning, pushing back any happy memories she had of the different landmarks.

A pair of two hooded robes stood at the entry steps. She turned her eyes down.

The sound of lips puckering. Kissing noises, and it took a moment to realize they were directed at her.

"Nice legs, Mudblood."

She didn't look up. So, that's all she was now. A pair of legs.

The doors to the Entrance Hall peeled open, and Draco pulled her inside behind him.

They marched into the Great Hall, and she was thankful that it looked nothing like it did in her happiest memories.

It seemed like Voldemort had torn apart every piece of the castle that would interest him, and redeposited it here.

The remains of the basilisk swept in a broad circle around the walls, serving as seating for the Death Eaters in attendance. Nagini hissed at her ankles as they passed, and Hermione tried not to let her mind linger on how to kill her.

Lord Voldemort himself sat in a throne of bones, carefully collected and magicked into structure. He twirled the Elder Wand between his fingers, red eyes glittering at her and Draco's approach like rubies.

Draco walked her to a spot on the floor dark with dried blood and dropped to his knee, dragging her down with him. He bowed his head, but Hermione defiantly stared the Dark Lord in the eye, the darkness drawing her in. She could feel the stain of it on the stones, and she pushed back, refusing to bow to him.

"Hermione Granger." The sound of her name sliding over his tongue shivered her skin. "Welcome to my castle." He chuckled.

She breathed deep, the rotting air thick in her throat. When she gave no greeting, he continued.

"You fetched quite a price at the sale. The... Auction. Yes, that was it. But I see now you are no great beauty."

Hermione nearly sneered. Of all the things she thought Lord Voldemort would have to say to her, insulting her looks never made the list.

"And still my followers jockeyed for you." He titled his pale hairless head at her. "How grand it must be to have befriended Harry Potter."

A deep rumbling chuckle chorused through the room. The Death Eaters chortled.

"Stand," he commanded, and then Draco was dragging her to her feet. "Young Malfoy."

"My Lord."

"You gave up quite a lot to obtain her."

"Yes, my Lord."

"Why?"

"We were adversaries at school," Draco said, eyes still downcast. "She never quite learned her place. And also"—he lifted his eyes to Lord Voldemort, a small smirk pulling at his lips—"I'm always drawn toward the most valuable possessions."

The Dark Lord grinned. "And is she everything you paid for and more? I heard she was untouched. I assume you've taken her."

"Not yet, my Lord."

The Death Eaters shifted, whispering. She felt a dozen eyes turn on her.

Lord Voldemort's brow lifted. "And why is that?"

She looked to Draco. Why was that?

He glanced at her, his eyes slid over her neck, down to her breasts.

"Anticipation is the sweetest torture, is it not?"

Hermione swallowed. Voldemort laughed. A high cackling of glee.

"Your father was too soft, Young Malfoy. But you're learning."

Hermione felt her blood screaming. He was playing with her. Maybe they all were. A beautiful suite with a bed and bath of her very own. Tea with Narcissa. Access to the library of her dreams. Even Lucius was civil.

It would all come to an end soon.

"Tell me, Mudblood Granger," Voldemort's crooning voice interrupted her spiral. "What do you know of George Weasley?"

She blinked. She couldn't hold back her surprise before Voldemort saw it.

"What?"

Draco's head snapped to her. "You will address him as My Lord," he hissed, eyes burning into her.

"George Weasley. His safe houses. His distant family." Voldemort leaned forward in his throne. "What does he care about?"

Hermione stared into the glittering eyes searching her. And then she understood.

George had escaped.

And for some reason, Voldemort was threatened by that.

A fire burned in her gut, something that she'd thought had been extinguished the moment she spotted a small body in Hagrid's arms.

"George Weasley was one half of the cleverest, trickiest pair I'd ever encountered," she said. "Even if I had an idea of where he'd go, I'd be wrong." A slow smile spread up her lips. "I'm quite pleased to inform you that if George Weasley escaped, you'll never see him again."

Red eyes narrowed at her. She anticipated the Cruciatus Curse.

Something slammed into her face, stinging her cheek and snapping her neck to the side. She stumbled, gaining balance and pressing her hand to her face. Her eyes rocked in their sockets.

She looked back, searching for the weapon, preparing for another strike. Her eyes refocused as Draco lowered his hand, a ring on his thumb glinting at her. Her lip wet with blood.

He'd backhanded her. He'd hit her, and she was bleeding.

"Watch your mouth. You are addressing your Lord."

His voice shivered her, and she looked away from his icy eyes.

Voldemort chuckled, a sound like stinging knives. "I'll just take a look for myself, Mudblood."

He stood and slithered toward her. She stood frozen as he circled her, coming around to her front again and leaning into her face. She looked into his red eyes, pulled to them almost inexorably.

And then there were daggers in her brain, sinking into her eyes and twisting deep. She couldn't breathe as memories floated through her head, yanked forward and pushed back.

She saw George with a sharp stinging pain. His head bleeding where his ear had been, smiling up at his twin.

Like a rubber band snapped inside of her, and then George was thirteen, smacking Bludgers with his brother on the Quidditch field.

A ricochet to the Burrow, and Molly Weasley stood before her, washing dishes.

"My Aunt Muriel—"

And like a whip cracking across her mind, she jerked to see Ludo Bagman speaking to the twins at the Quidditch World Cup. Hermione sat with Harry, staring around at the other tents and parties.

A moment of stillness as Voldemort's consciousness slithered through the moment, twisting around Ludo Bagman and examining him. In pause, Hermione turned her mind to Harry, watching his easy smile from years ago—

Wrenched through waves of memories and images, and then Hermione was in the Quidditch pitch at Hogwarts, running down to the stands as Harry held George Weasley back from launching at someone.

She saw Draco, sneering and laughing on the field. And then he was tackled to the ground as George and Harry dove for him. A tangle of limbs, and Hermione ran down the stairs, cringing at the sound of knuckles against jaws and eyes.

She felt a dark joy swimming next to her as Voldemort watched Draco, Harry, and George scuffle. As Madam Hooch separated them, Hermione remembered checking Harry and George for injuries first, and then her eyes sliding to Draco, curled in on himself, fighting for air.

And even knowing that Draco had purposefully provoked the fight had not squashed Hermione's interest in his well-being. She watched as Harry and George were carted off the field, and lingered to see if someone was checking on the bloodied body on the grass.

He looked so small. Still trying to crow at Harry's back as they left. And when the back of his hand swiped his brow, wiping blood from his eye, Hermione had gasped before looking away and running after the Gryffindors.

Before looking away—

—running after the Gryffindors—

But she stayed. Frozen. Like someone had paused the film.

She stared down at the Quidditch pitch, hands squeezing the railing, and looked down on a pink-faced blond cradling his arm.

She should be turning and leaving.

A cold breeze settled across her, like a snake's tongue slipping in through one ear and out the other. And it almost felt as if Voldemort stood next to her at the railing.

If she could turn her head, maybe she would see him there. Watching her… watching Draco Malfoy.

Like a hook around her waist, and then she was on the Quidditch pitch again, staring at a twelve-year-old Draco, sneering at her—

"Filthy little Mudblood."

And later that night as she cried in her dormitory—

In the library, glaring at him as he read her favorite book. He smiled at all the best parts—

And then a waltz played across her ears, and she spun in a circle to find him in front of her. The memory slowed, and Voldemort watched her curtsey in her periwinkle dress, watched her hand raise to Draco's. And like his face was resting just over her shoulder, the Dark Lord turned with them as they danced at the Yule Ball.

Voldemort could hear her heartbeat, feel the shiver across her skin, and watched as Draco scowled down at her—

And with an abruptness that echoed of breathing air after drowning, she was alone in her mind. And Voldemort was before her in the Great Hall, the bones of her comrades scattered around them. He tilted his head, slanting eyes examining her like she'd presented an unexpected problem.

Her head felt the absence of his like a brain freeze, something so chilling filling the plates of her skull.

He released his magical hold on her, and her body crumpled to the ground, legs bending in odd directions. It hurt to keep her eyes open, but she stared up at him as a slow idea formed in his eyes, a realization.

He knew that she fancied Draco Malfoy.

His hand shot out and Hermione could only catch her breath as Draco gasped and zoomed forward like a puppet on a string. His jaw stretched into Voldemort's hand. His legs lengthened to stand on the stones.

Voldemort turned his red eyes on Draco's, and suddenly it was very quiet while Voldemort searched Draco's memories and thoughts for her.

A drop of sweat rolled down Draco's jaw, as Voldemort performed a thorough examination.

She didn't know how long she had been examined, but this felt longer.

Draco grunted, breath shallow.

And then Voldemort released him, dropping him to the floor next to her. Draco caught himself on his knees and stared up at the Dark Lord.

Voldemort smiled. Pleased.

He turned his gaze back on her prone body. And he cackled. She flinched as the sound of it bounced around the Great Hall.

She fancied her captor and soon-to-be-rapist. A familiar boiling in her gut rose up and choked her—the same feeling she used to have in fourth year whenever she'd have to tear her eyes off of him. It was disgusting really. To want him.

And a thought drifted through her: if she had any doubts about how Draco saw her, how he felt about her, at least Voldemort had given her reason to squash those doubts. He didn't feel anything for her. If he had, Voldemort surely would have found it.

She tore her eyes from the red ones, and he laughed again.

"Take your time with this one, Malfoy," Voldemort said. "You can torture her for years without lifting a wand to her."

A shaking voice to her left whispered, "Yes, my Lord."

Voldemort chuckled. Not even with Harry dead at his feet did she hear him this gleeful.

Draco yanked her up by her elbow, bowing to the Dark Lord, and dragging her along behind him.

They passed the guards at the doors, still sucking their teeth at her. They moved through the lawn of Dementors, and Hermione felt no change inside her chest. They cleared the gates, and a sharp tug Disapparated them back to the hills of Malfoy Manor.

She kept her eyes on the ground as if Voldemort was still there, bearing down on her. And maybe he was — inside her mind. Crawling and feeding on her. Perhaps he'd never leave.

The gates opened for them, and before Hermione could sludge through them, Draco's hand on her elbow pulled her back.

His grey eyes searched hers, frantic movements across her face. "What did he find?"

She looked away from him and shook her head, her eyes stinging. "It doesn't matter. He was pleased. That's all that matters." She turned to move away before he pulled her back — his grip firm, but nonviolent.

"Whatever it is, he thinks I'm complicit," Draco said, voice barely loud enough over the wind. "Tell me."

The wind wove through them, casting his cloak in twisting patterns and dancing along her bare skin.

Maybe she could tell him. It was nothing really. I had a crush on you at Hogwarts. It would be simple, and there would be no weight to it any longer. She could shrug and laugh.

Anticipation is the sweetest torture.

But this wasn't Hogwarts. This was a hellfire of distrust and danger, laced with her impending rape and sprinkled with moments of hollow kindness. She couldn't tell him the truth.

She couldn't tell him anything.

"Don't worry, Malfoy. Voldemort didn't find anything in your head to incriminate you. Feel free to proceed with your plans to break me." She looked at the hedges to her right, blinking as the fury in her chest gave way to despair.

A warm hand on her cheek. She snapped her head back to him to find him staring down at her lips. Hermione's eyes widened, lips parting.

A whispered spell. His wand at the corner of her mouth, sewing the skin back together from where his ring had split her lip.

She calmed her thundering heart, waiting for his hand to drop from her jaw. Instead he said, "Were you relieved when you learned you were coming here? Is that what it was? Do you think of me as the lesser of two evils?"

She searched his eyes, wondering which memories and thoughts Voldemort shuffled through if Draco was this intent on finding out.

"No, not really," she answered truthfully, remembering the long walk down these hedges just a few nights ago. "I thought I might be a gift for your father."

His hand twitched against her face, like he'd been electrified. It dropped, hanging down by his side.

"Then what was it? Tell me what he found." He swallowed as the wind slashed across them.

There was something Draco Malfoy wanted that she could refuse to give. The small shift in power buzzed through her.

She slipped away from him, moving toward the Manor, and tossed over her shoulder, "Anticipation is the sweetest torture, isn't it?"

Marching away down the stone path, shivering in her négligée, she almost smiled.

So, George was on the run.

It must have been during the Auction itself. He was onstage with Ludo when the girls began to fight. At least they'd won something during that moment.

She sat in her wingback chair, watching the sun rise through her windows. It was her third morning in Malfoy Manor, though she hadn't slept the night before, content to stare at the walls while her brain mended itself.

Several times she thought she should call for an elf to grab her a potion, but the headache kept her focused. She wouldn't be complacent in whatever they'd planned for her.

Her cheek throbbed, a bluish bruise blossoming over her the corner of her mouth where she'd bled. She could have sworn she'd felt the outline of a gemstone against her cheek last night, but it was nowhere to be found this morning. Perhaps he'd only struck her face to save his own. Surely one of them needed to be punished for her smart mouth. She pressed her lips together, hardening to the memory of his healing hands at the gates last night.

If he thought Hermione Granger was going to go quietly, she had a surprise for him.

The sunlight popped over a tree, the first rays intruding upon her space, lighting up her walls. She stood, wrapping her robe tightly around herself and moved to the window, watching the grounds light up.

There were no gates on this side of the estate, just large hedges and ponds. And with the daylight, she could finally make out the gardens in the distance.

I'll get out, she told herself. There was always a weakness somewhere. A pressure point she could exploit.

Pulling open the balcony doors, intent to peer around the sides of the Manor and below, she moved to step out, but something stopped her.

She looked down at her feet, planted close to the doorway. She couldn't lift them. She stepped backwards just fine. A barrier spell of sorts.

She'd been able to sit on the balcony yesterday, having tea with Narcissa in the morning. What had changed?

A chill from the morning breeze wound its way around her skin.

Luna.

She stared at the horizon as the sun's half-circle rose over the trees.

So should I take myself to the tallest tower in Malfoy Manor as well?

She'd goaded him. And while they were gone last night, he had wards set.

Curiously, she reached her hand out. The wards stopped her before her fingers could cross the doorway. Her cheeks heated. How dare he. He was carving away her options, narrowing the walls of her pretty little cage.

Hermione spun, thoughts crashing around her mind like waves in a storm. She ran for the curtains hanging from the canopy and tugged them into knots, but a noose wouldn't hold. The fireplace burned low, and she stomped over to test another theory.

Like warm water as she plunged her hand into the flames.

She threw open the wardrobe, and found that all of her belts and sashes had been removed.

I dare you to try, he'd said. Reminding her that her life wasn't hers to take anymore.

Brushing away her tears, she stared at the sunrise, and then shoved her feet into boots, tossed open the bedroom door, and then took off in her robe.

She marched down the hall, wondering if anyone slept in these rooms. If she happened upon Draco she would give him a piece of her mind, that was certain. She clambered down the marble stairs and out into the chilly morning air, breathing in the freedom.

The other side of the Manor was the unexplored land. Staying close to the walls, she walked the edges, taking in the morning fog. Rounding the corner, the gazebo rose from the mists, sunlight bouncing off its elegant roof, casting patterned shadows on the grass before it. The waters shuffled on the lake, trembling as the fowl landed and bobbed.

A warming charm would be helpful about now. Hermione frowned, hoping that she'd acclimate to being non-magical soon. Then she'd remember to put on a jumper the next time she went for an angry morning stroll.

The lawns spread out for acres, and she considered how far the property went. Perhaps they had even more than this, but the Manor's grounds stopped at a certain point. She looked down at her arm, wondering at what point the estate would bar her exit. The two letters inked into her skin caught the morning light, a hint of gold shown through, just over the top of the white lettering Bellatrix had given her.

She peered back at the windows, checking the third floor for her room and finding the door to the balcony thrown wide. She counted. She was the second balcony in on the right, facing northeast according to the rising sun. Handy details, if she could ever find someone who could use them.

A short walk through the countryside. That's what it could have been, in another life. She faced the sunrise, now dappling the trees along the edges of the lawn, and began to wander.

Cutting across the grass like a lone sailboat on a lake, she headed northeast. Find the chinks in the armor. There was a faint hum of the grounds waking, birds stretching their voices wide, the hedges bowing to the sky.

It was startling to be surrounded by beauty again. Scenery had been the last thing on her mind when choosing the locations she'd dragged Harry and Ron for the last year. And yet, these grounds were clearly made to be seen. Admired. It almost felt mocking, given her circumstances. She imagined this field was quite useful for garden parties and large receptions.

Did the Malfoys even have family friends anymore? Or were they just all Death Eaters. Who did Narcissa Malfoy entertain?

She reached the edge of the rounded hedges, facing a pathway cutting down a dark lane lined with trees with delicate branches, leaning over to touch each other. A sparrow sang to her children.

It was idyllic. Too idyllic. Distractingly so. Perhaps the weakness was somewhere down this lane. It extended forever, disappearing into morning mist and the shadows of the trees.

She stepped through, feeling much like Alice in her looking glass, waiting for another world to morph before her eyes. Nothing. No tingle on her arm. She continued her walk, eager to find the end of the Malfoy property.

Something the birds sang echoed in her head, a kind of melody that sounded familiar. A few notes that strung together and reminded her of a song her mother used to sing in the mornings. She wondered if Monica Wilkins remembered that song. If some mornings she woke up humming it, trying to place a melody she'd long forgotten.

She'd never been so thankful for her foresight than her choice to Obliviate her mother and father. If she had to add her parents to her growing list of worries in this new world, it would be unbearable.

Hermione stretched her arms out wide, fingertips barely grazing the leaves on several unruly hedges on either side. Perhaps Hix was shirking his duties. Her robe opened in the wind, air rushing to meet her warm skin. She threw her head back and stared at the splatches of sky through the tree branches.

The lane ended. It opened wide into another field.

Hermione stopped, staring at the sloping hill, a childish impulse telling her to run and tumble down.

A different, darker impulse telling her to run as well.

She stepped forward.

"I would stop there, Miss Granger."

She spun. Lucius Malfoy – impeccably dressed for the hour in the morning – stood with his hands clasped behind his back, staring at her with grey eyes.

Had he Apparated to her? She hadn't heard him approach in the narrow lane. Was she past the Apparition line?

She remembered herself, quickly closing the robe and pulling it tight to cover her modest nightclothes. No sash to tie it closed.

"Why?" she asked. "What's beyond this?"

"Nothing much of anything, really." He stepped forward, and she was reminded of the way her aunt would try to corner one of her playful cats. "The grounds extend another few acres, but it's mostly fields."

"I like fields." She wondered if she'd pay for the insolence in her tone.

The corner of his mouth twitched, like his son's whenever he hid a smile in class. "Yes, don't we all," he hummed in a condescending growl. "But I'm afraid you've reached the line you cannot cross, Miss Granger."

She stared back at him, examining him. He leaned forward on his toes, ready to pounce. She wouldn't notice it if she didn't already know that Malfoys lean back on their heels, waiting for the world to come to them. His hands behind his back – perhaps his wand between his fingers. Following her.

Lucius Malfoy didn't want her crossing this line.

Her skin pricked. Perhaps the weakness was here.

"I assure you, there's nothing but plains of grass," he said, reading her distrust. "A few excellent spots for Quidditch"—he nodded over her shoulder—"if such a thing interests you." He frowned at her when she didn't move and sighed. "The Manor grounds stop here for the purposes of that ink on your arm. If you cross the line, you will be grievously harmed, Miss Granger."

She blinked at him. He was nervous—she was certain of it. And what else could be the cause but the thought of her escaping?

A breeze rustled the tree branches above them, and sunlight freckled his face, reflecting off his eyes.

The birds had stopped singing.

It was worth a try.

If she was wrong, she'd be with Luna again. Harry. Draco couldn't stop her this time.

With an agility she'd learned from a year on the run, Hermione spun on her heel and leapt out of the lane, into the field.

A spark of fire in her arm, burning, crackling, sizzling up her nerve endings. She crumpled to the soft grass as the fire spread into her entire body, frying her from the inside. An echo of a yell behind her as the pain surrounded her mind and plunged her into a spinning darkness.

~*~

Rocking. Swaying. Like her father used to do when she injured herself.

Wrapped in a blanket, pressed against his chest.

Her mind floated up, thoughts attaching to memories.

She'd been outside. She'd been beneath a canopy of branches.

She'd wanted to follow a rabbit down, down, until she found her haven.

Lucius Malfoy had stopped her.

Her eyes fluttered. And she remembered the pain. Her body quaked, and her father's arms pulled her closer.

No, not her father.

Someone held her to their chest, walking, swaying, rocking her back to sleep. Her skin hurt.

Footsteps echoing off marble.

She fell back into the blackness, like blinking.

~*~

"What happened?" A panicked voice burst into her mind, waking her.

She swayed, rocking, walking.

Still in her father's arms.

Her eyelids fought against the paste that closed them together.

"Father! What happened?!"

"Your Mudblood decided to take a walk, Draco." The voice rumbled from the furnace against her ear. A low vibration, lulling her back. "Perhaps you should explain to her—"

She drifted out to sea again.

~*~

A hedge maze, several stories high. A rabbit in front of her, hopping away, looking back at her with Harry's emerald green eyes.

He disappeared around the corner hedge, and when she followed, he was gone.

~*~

Her body ached. She felt every limb spark to life, but they only twitched when she tried to move them.

Her eyes snapped open, and she stared at the canopy of her bed, the cream curtains draped so elegantly.

It was like she'd been immobilized. Her muscles were weighed down, and even her eyelashes worked too hard.

She could see the low sunlight from her windows bouncing against the ceiling.

Turning her neck in a slow rotation, she found a figure standing against her windows, staring at the grounds. Draco. He held a cup and saucer in one hand – tea gone cold, she could guess, with the lack of rising steam. His other hand in his pocket. Dark trousers, but a cobalt blue jumper. Out of uniform.

She stared at his back as she tested her muscles, curling her toes and shifting her arms. He was almost as tall as Ron now. Always taller than Harry. His shoulders had broadened with maturity or with muscle-training, she didn't know, but even through his jumper she could see the shape of him. Draco's clothes were always perfectly fitted. Probably had the jumper handmade, just for him.

The thumb holding onto his saucer bore the Slytherin class ring that had cut her lip the night before. The emerald stone winked at her, teasing her.

Her eyes dropped down, taking in his legs and backside. Perfectly tailored there as well. He stood tall on both legs, never one to lean on a hip unless provided with a wall or a pillar to rest on purposefully.

She used to watch Pansy's hands drift to his hips, either in class with a quick pinch to his thigh, or in dark corridors past curfew where Hermione would either interrupt the couple and take house points or walk away briskly with the image of green-painted fingernails sliding down his back to squeeze at him.

Like summoning his eyes, he turned to look at her just as her gaze moved to more acceptable locations.

His eyes were soft and distant. And then a flicker. And then grey and absent. Like a reptilian blink.

He faced her fully, vanished the teacup and saucer, and slid his other hand into his pocket. "Can you move?"

"Barely." Her voice was ragged, like it had been grinded down. Perhaps she had screamed.

Behind him she could make out the sun setting. She'd lost the entire day.

He scowled at her, and before she could wonder why, he asked, "Were you trying to kill yourself?"

She blinked, laying useless on the pillows.

"No. But now that you mention it, I'd appreciate my belts and scarves back."

He narrowed his eyes at her and paced across the carpets once before coming back to the same spot in front of the windows, his lips tight.

"I should have given you a tour of the perimeter upon your arrival and cautioned you of the consequences," he said. "Tomorrow, when you can walk again, we'll do that."

She gave a sharp laugh, and her stomach muscles protested. "There's no need to walk me. I'm a slave, not a dog. I think I have the idea now." She hissed through her teeth as she shifted her legs, hating the way she lay prone before him like a ragdoll. "Why is this recovery worse than the Cruciatus Curse?"

"I believe the barrier was created with Cruciatus in mind. You may not have been subjected to Cruciatus in extreme lengths of time." His eyes drifted away from her, and she had the distinct impression that he had suffered these exact symptoms before. "Crossing the barrier should shock the tattooed person and give them a chance to withdraw themselves from the perimeter. Father said you jumped through the barrier, your entire body beyond it. You landed and rolled down the hill."

She swallowed. Yes, that seemed right. At least she'd learned something. Weaknesses in the wards were irrelevant as long as she had that tattoo on her arm. Lucius had been telling the truth.

"By the time he recovered you," he continued, "you'd been outside of the barrier for two minutes."

She frowned. "Certainly took him long enough."

His face turned back to her, lifting a brow. "Lucius doesn't have his wand at the moment. He's having it replaced."

She blinked at him. This knowledge was startling. The possibilities swirled in her mind, and she tried to find the advantage.

Draco read her face easily. "The Dark Lord requested his wand last year, for reasons of his own. He's been using a replacement, but during the Battle of Hogwarts, it finally gave up on him. Cracked."

"Oh," was all she could say. She stared at the curtains behind him as she realized Lucius Malfoy had followed her down a hill, lifted her into his arms, and carried her back to her bedroom.

She wondered if he'd run, or if he'd just let her body writhe and sizzle at the bottom of the hill.

Nothing this family did made any sense.

She caught Draco's eye. He'd been staring at her, she realized. She was weak, immobile, and in bed before him. He could do anything he wanted to her. Swallowing, she tested her arm muscles, trying to flex them. Barely responsive.

The movement caught his eye and he looked away. "Mippy," he called out.

The elf popped into the room. "Miss is awake!"

"She needs food and water," Draco stated, moving toward the door. Her head was too heavy to follow him. "And another muscle relaxing potion in an hour. Please tend to her."

The door closed, and she stared at the spot in front of the windows where he'd stood as Mippy bounced around her.

~*~

Narcissa helped her out of bed the next day and assisted her with stretching her tight muscles. Hermione pressed her lips together and let her, wondering if she knew what her son had planned for her. They made it down the stairs for a stroll along the Manor's ground floor.

She didn't see Draco or Lucius for the day. Narcissa apologized for not showing her the boundary, offering to take her on a walk, but Hermione declined. Her muscles still ached. And she didn't need a reminder that she was bound here.

Narcissa was the most observant person Hermione had ever met. By midafternoon, when she came to escort her downstairs for lunch, she had deduced that Hermione’s skin was as sensitive as her muscles, and therefore stopped looping their arms together. She cast Cushioning Charms on the wingback chairs before they sat to take their dinner. When Narcissa asked Mippy to draw a room temperature bath, Hermione almost smiled at her.

It was as if she had a particularly nasty sunburn over every inch of her skin, and any extra contact sent her shivering.

Once she had toweled off, she pulled on the soft silk nightdress that Narcissa had left for her on the bed. She fell asleep that night wrapped in silk, with a cooling charm on her sheets.

~*~

Her consciousness lifted from her dreams in slow waves, a weightless floating back to the surface. Every time she dipped back into dreaming, Harry was there.

Untwining her wishes and memories, Hermione felt a pricking across her skin, her body dragging her back into her bed at Malfoy Manor, where Harry was dead. Her arms shivered, and that familiar sensation of eyes on her washed over her.

A tug at her hair, a curl twisting softly away, tickling at her neck.

Her lashes fluttered, and she opened her eyes to her dark bedroom. She tilted her head to the door, certain for a moment that she hadn't been alone. That fingers had threaded through her hair, a gaze steadily watching over her.

Maybe Narcissa had come to check on her.

Or maybe…

She blinked away her silly thoughts, twisting her legs in the sheets, and turning over to her other side to snuggle in.

A shadow in the darkness. And fingers twisting her curls. And eyes like the devil looking down on her, resting behind her on the bed.

"Hello, darling," Bellatrix hummed.

Her heart stuttered in her chest, freezing her veins and tightening her muscles. Her legs thrashed, kicking to get away, but Bellatrix cackled and slithered over her. She sat on her hips, pinning her elbows to the bed, grinning down at her.

Hermione's throat caught around the word, "help," choking in her chest.

"Ah, ah, ah!" Bellatrix clucked. "That won't do. It's just us girls." Her nails cut into Hermione's arms until she whimpered. "Such a pretty little prize you make, Mudblood. And expensive, too."

One hand grabbed her jaw, bony fingers turning her face to look her over. Hermione thrashed, her free arm fighting to push and roll out from under her. Bellatrix's hand dipped down and tightened, pressing heavy on her throat. Hermione scratched at her, pushing up on the weight against her neck as spots clouded her vision. She concentrated on her breath, coming in slow, measured rattles.

"So expensive, makes me wonder if your cunt is golden, too." Her hot breath hit Hermione's face, the putrid stench suffocating her as much as the grip on her throat. "Not that anyone's found out yet, isn't that right?"

The mocking lilt to her voice shot straight down Hermione's spine.

"Do you want to know why the Dark Lord values me, Mudblood? Why I am permitted at his right side after all these years?" She smiled down at her, her eyes glittering black. "Because I don't let my cock get in the way of what's truly important."

She cackled, and Hermione shuddered. Bellatrix swiped one of Hermione's curls away as her face twisted, dark and petulant. "Like father like son." She scowled down at her, and Hermione watched her eyes burn. Bellatrix sat tall suddenly, her hand lifting from Hermione's throat.

"That's the problem with men," she hissed. "No fucking loyalty. No sense of duty!" Bella twirled her wand in her fingers as she looked over Hermione's head at some far distant memory. "Can't see the larger picture. They just want to dip their wicks."

Hermione felt like maybe she was missing some kind of opening here. Some way to sympathize with her, gain her trust, and then run. Before Hermione could think of a possibility, Bellatrix pounced. She clawed at her scalp, pulling her hair back into the pillow, yanking her chin to the ceiling.

"But you… still untouched. What an embarrassment." Something wet and warm on her – Bella licking her face from jaw to temple. "You don't taste expensive." She cackled. "Do you think you're safe, Mudblood?"

Hermione's eyes could only see the headboard, her lungs dragging in air through a crooked windpipe.

"I don't want you getting a big head about this. You know your place, don't you?"

And then Bella wrenched her left arm away from her body, pushing her wrist into the mattress so she could read her scar properly.

"Don't you?!" she screeched.

"Yes," Hermione wheezed, fingers scrabbling at her throat.

"Do you need to be reminded?"

"N-no!"

A cackle. "Ohh… I think you do."

The edge of a blade caught the moonlight, and Hermione's chest locked in horror as the tip pressed against her skin.

Hermione thrashed wildly. Bellatrix laughed and moved one knee onto her chest, the other pressing her upper arm into the mattress as her blade dug into her arm.

She couldn't breathe. She screamed, knowing no one would hear her. No one—

"Aunt Bella," said a calm voice. "What are you doing?"

A wave of Bellatrix's hand, and the candles lit in her bedroom. She turned over her shoulder and smiled. "Draco, darling. Come to play?"

Hermione felt her pulse in the wound, her blood gathering.

Bellatrix dismounted, and Hermione scrambled to the side, stumbling into the wall. Her eyes darted to the bathroom with the door that she could barricade, but it was on the other side of the bed.

She held her arm close to her chest and looked up to see Draco in the center of the room, watching his aunt. He wore his trunks and a vacant expression. His eyes didn't search for her, he didn't move toward her. He just smirked at his aunt.

"Bella, you of all people know the importance of breaking in a toy. You'll ruin my process."

Hermione swallowed, her breath coming in sharp gasps, dizzying her. The wound… There was something wrong with her.

Bellatrix slid off the bed. "It's for your own good, Draco. She's poisoned the Malfoy name enough."

He stared back at her coolly. "The Dark Lord isn't finished with her."

Bellatrix pouted and whispered something against Draco's ear. Hermione felt like she couldn't hear normally; maybe her blood was pounding too loud. Draco said something in return, and Hermione watched as Bellatrix's palm slithered across his bare chest, dragging her nails over the skin. She slipped past him and hummed a happy little tune as she danced to the door.

The room spun, and Hermione braced herself on the wall.

Bellatrix said something to him in the doorway. Some mumbled melody. But Hermione stared down at her arm, blood starting to bead.

There was a squiggle and a dash. And she wished Bellatrix had thought of something important to carve. She had to look at it forever now. Just like the other marks Bella had made.

The wall behind her zoomed forward, smacking her in the head, her back solid against it.

She looked up to tell Bellatrix to come back and finish it. It wasn't fair to her to leave her with just a squiggle. But she was shutting the door behind her, and then Draco's bare skin was all around her.

Warm.

"Granger!" Sound floated into focus. Not the first time he'd called her name. She could hear the echoes of it now.

Draco was so warm. His hand held her wrist, blood starting to drip, and his other arm held her body up, wrapping around her waist. She pressed her head into his shoulder. Like they were dancing.

She smiled, feeling her lips pull across his skin, dizzy with the melody.

Something was wrong with her.

Heat over her wound. And maybe he was healing it. Maybe he would fix it so it meant something. Not just a curving line and a snag.

She looked over at it, and found Draco's lips on her arm.

That would heal it. She was sure of it. Her mother used to do the same.

He turned his face away, lips stained red, and spat her blood onto her cream carpets.

He reattached his mouth, sucking hard, and she felt her head float back down when he spit again.

Sucking something out of her. She blinked at him. Watching Draco Malfoy fill his mouth with her muddy blood, watching the carpets bleed.

She gasped, knees buckling, lungs filling again. He looked at her, his mouth still wrapped around her skin, eyes pale. His arm clutching her body close to him, sweeping her up against him. A waltz was playing somewhere.

He turned and spit. "Accio." His voice cracked on the one word.

His wand flew from somewhere. Somewhere outside of the room.

Because he'd come running when she screamed, leaving his wand behind.

Like father like son.

He gripped the wrist of her injured hand and turned his wand on the cuts, siphoning blood into the air, and whispering a spell to pull something dark out of it. Smoke, curling out of her arm and hanging in the air around them like mist.

At some point during her episode, she had grabbed his shoulder, and her hand felt completely frozen now, even as he worked on curing her blood, fingers curled over his neck. She stared at his bare shoulders, the skin of his arms.

Draco Malfoy slept in only trunks and socks. He also had a singular beauty mark on top of his left shoulder. The edges of her vision blurred as she studied his lips. Lips that could suck the life out of her.

"It's a goblin blade," he whispered.

She blinked at the sound of his voice this close to her. They shared the same air. She blinked again. Clearer now.

"It's viper venom. And other things," he said, separating the smoke from her blood again.

She nodded dumbly. Highly poisonous, and he'd sucked it out. Saved her. He met her eyes for what felt like the first time since yesterday. He was so tall. Her neck lengthened, and her hand slipped over his shoulder on accident.

Gooseflesh beneath her fingers.

"It will scar too, unfortunately." He turned back to her arm, and cast a spell to weave the skin back together.

She drew a rattling breath and gave another nod. Her head felt clear again, though it stung around the edges. She wondered again what Bellatrix had intended.

His eyes followed the line of her arm, onto her shoulder, up her neck to her eyes. He held her stare, deep and purposeful. "It doesn't mean anything. The marks."

Of course it didn't, she thought. It's just a squiggle.

Her eyes drifted down to his lips, still stained pink with her blood. "Thank you," she whispered.

He swallowed. And then he was sliding his hand away, peeling his body back from her. He steadied her against the wall. "Mippy!" A crack and the elf was there, bouncing and asking if something was wrong with Miss. "Blood replenishing potion. Water. And another serving of dinner if Miss Granger wishes."

His eyes never left hers as Mippy popped away.

"I'll have the wards reset. When I chose a Blood Boundary, I thought it would only allow my parents. I didn't think..." He turned his face away. His eyes landed on her blood on the carpets and he waved his wand to vanish it. "I had no idea she would want you again."

Hermione flinched. "Want her" was not her favorite choice of words. "Why did she then?" she rasped. She'd have bruising on her neck in the morning.

His eyes grew cold. "She… disapproves. Of the way we're handling you." His gaze slid down her body, stopping at the bottom of her nightdress, across the tops of her thighs, and quickly set back on her face. Hermione shivered. "I need to speak to my father. If you need anything, please utilize Mippy."

She nodded, feeling warm from his wandering eyes. He turned and exited the room through the door while she stared at her feet, refusing to look at his naked back.

Mippy returned. She changed the sheets for her, cooled the bed, and stayed with her until she had a few bites off the plate.

Hermione lay awake, letting the Blood Replenishing Potion hum through her, running her fingers over the new markings on her left arm as she stared blankly at the ceiling. Only when the marks had faded into the same white scarring as the other word on her arm did Hermione see it.

Bellatrix had finished after all. Not a squiggle and a dash.

There, just next to the ink of Draco's signature, she'd carved an apostrophe and an "s."

D.M. ' s
mudblood

The poison worked its way through her system overnight, leaving a lethargic hum in her veins the next morning. Once the adrenalin of the initial shock had seeped from her, her body felt the aftermath like a lead weight for the next few days.

Mippy continued to pop in with potions without labels. She asked the elf what was inside the small vial, but all she would reply was, "For Miss! For Miss to heal!"

On the third day of her subdued and woozy recovery, she refused the potion. It was possible the slow climb back to health was not due to the poison, but to the antidotes she was taking. Mippy bounced from toe to toe, spinning reasons to take it at her like a broken record.

"But Miss! Miss was hurt! The potion makes Miss better!"

"But Miss is weak! This makes her strong!"

"Miss wants to feel good? Drink!"

"Master Draco makes it special for Miss. To make her better!"

That one caught Hermione's attention. She looked to the small girl elf, holding a purple swirling potion out to her. Draco made this potion? Or Draco doctored the potion somehow?

"No. Thank you." She turned her head from the elf's wide eyes and thought about how easy it would be to drop a sprig of asphodel into almost any potion. Or…

The minty magic suppressant that the nurses gave her in the Ministry holding cells. The ones they'd been ordered to give all slaves.

The Malfoys must be dosing her, but… perhaps they'd enhanced the suppressant to be tasteless? She tried to remember if anything she'd eaten had a strange peppermint aftertaste.

Perhaps that was why her recovery had been so difficult. Healing potions mixed with a heavy dose of magic suppressants.

Mippy disappeared with the undrunk potion, and Hermione decided against dinner that evening.

She woke up in the middle of the night, clutching her arm, sweating, head pounding. She'd been through worse. She knew she could survive it. Her blood began to boil after ten minutes, sweat blooming from her skin and sinking into the sheets. Whatever Draco's potion was, it was clearly better than this. She suffered two hours before whispering a shaky, "Mippy," into the quiet room. The elf appeared and helped her drink.

~*~

Lying boneless all day and night as a toxin washed its way through her blood was all too freeing for her mind. She stared off for hours, reimagining Bellatrix's breath on her face, her high laugh. And then piecing together what she remembered of Draco. Seemingly appearing from nowhere. Still as stone as his aunt left the room, and then jerky, hurried movements as he healed her.

He healed her.

It was important to him that he heal her.

In ways that the Dark Lord couldn't possibly condone.

In ways that made her think she was worth more than sixty-five thousand Galleons.

He'd cleaned her blood with his lips, spitting onto the plush carpets like he could buy new ones. Sucking poison from his whore, as if he couldn't buy another one of those.

His untouched whore. In her elegant suite.

Her eyes closed, drifting off, remembering his skin surrounding her.

~*~

Narcissa visited often. She offered to retrieve books from the shelves, bring fresh sleeping clothes, take dinner requests.

On the fourth day, she turned from her bedside and said, "It's such a beautiful day out. Perhaps in the afternoon, we could take a stroll."

Her eyes drifted down to Hermione's arm and back, where twice her own sister had cut into her.

"No," Hermione tested. "I don't really fancy a walk. Thank you, though." She watched, waiting. Wondering how far her illicit freedom stretched.

Narcissa smiled pleasantly. "I'll leave you to rest then."

She gathered the books Hermione had finished, floated them to the bookshelves, and moved toward the door. She paused with her hand on the doorknob.

"My sister… cannot be excused. But she is my blood, so I feel I always must excuse her." Narcissa turned back to her. "I stopped approving of her actions a long time ago. And she stopped approving of mine. But her behavior is not a reflection of this house, or its inhabitants."

Narcissa nodded to her, and left.

Somehow, incredibly, Hermione was struggling less and less with that concept.

~*~

She started rising from bed and moving around her room in the mornings. Her muscles ached, but every day became easier.

It had been ten days since she was electrocuted and poisoned, and ten days since she'd seen either of the Malfoy men. She dressed slowly, intent to get out of bed and leave her room.

The portraits hissed at her as she passed, muttering things about her dirty blood. An older man with the same long blond hair as Lucius but a rounder face and stomach humphed at her as she passed his portrait and said, "Shameful. We would have locked her away in the dungeons in my day."

She sneered back at him, dragging her fingers across his ornate frame as he gasped in indignation.

It was difficult for her to have no purpose. Ever since she was eleven, Harry had needed her. She knew things. She had answers. And if she didn't have the answer, she could look it up.

But she was incapable of answering certain questions with books now. She had survived and was being protected for reasons that were impossible to understand. All her captors seemed to ask of her was to merely exist. She'd turned over a dozen possible motives in her mind over the last few days, each more preposterous than the last. They were Order sympathizers. Double agents. Saving her as a bargaining chip in the event that Voldemort was defeated.

Whatever their reasons for keeping her safe, one thing was certain: people were dying. Her friends were dying. She'd already lost too much time.

Pushing open the library doors, she shuffled to the texts on dark magic.

It seemed that she had several problems.

Firstly, Voldemort had the Elder Wand — something she had never put as much faith into as Harry had. She was always more interested in the Horcruxes. They were tangible, and weren't rooted in fables.

Which brought her to her second problem: Nagini. There were only two people alive who knew about Voldemort's last Horcrux: her and Ron. She remembered Neville running for the snake in the courtyard, but she couldn't be sure he knew the importance of it. If someone was able to defeat Voldemort, she or Ron would have to make sure the snake was dead. That seemed like such a far off problem.

The locket, cup, tiara, ring, and diary were all gone. A surge of memories rose through her consciousness, unbidden. Parseltongue, shared dreams, mind connections. Where she'd thought that maybe Harry was… She wiped her clammy hands on her trousers and forced the thought aside. None of that mattered anymore.

Was Nagini really the last one? Or had he made more? Was his soul stable enough for more?

Hermione reached for a text, her bandaged left arm stretching high, reminding her of her third problem. The tattoos. She wouldn't be able to leave the estate without Draco. She could do all the research in the world, answer all the questions, and still it would be pointless if she couldn't leave and tell someone about it.

If only she could get in touch with George. Figure out some way of communicating to him, even if she couldn't leave. But if Voldemort looked into her mind again…

She flipped open the book on Horcruxes she'd been looking at last week, searching for the passage on Fiendfyre she'd wanted to reread—

And snapped the book closed. Her mind… the images she saw… the things she read…

Voldemort could see them all.

It wasn't just her important memories he had access to. He could see anything she did, no matter how mundane. Pages and words and information. Her favorite things.

She put back the book with shaking fingers, knowing that researching Horcruxes was enough to incriminate her. She'd never been afraid of her own mind before. But her knowledge would betray her if Voldemort performed Legilimency on her again.

Staring at the books, staring at the shelves of a library so dark and powerful that it could defeat Voldemort and his Elder Wand with only its pages wielded by the right person, Hermione realized she couldn't use any of it.

She stepped back, breathing hard. There was nothing she could research. Nothing was safe. She blinked quickly at the stacks, focusing on her breath, feeling a sharp pain in her ribs.

Her mind wasn't her own. She felt his presence inside, slick like oil. It had been almost two weeks since he had invaded her consciousness. Perhaps he wouldn't again. But could she count on it?

She leaned back on the shelves, closing her eyes, trying to find a way out.

The sound of shuffling to her left snapped her eyes open. A book slithered from a shelf down an aisle and hovered, as if it had been called. Blinking, she turned to see if anyone was at the catalogue at the front.

No one.

The book hovered. Hermione moved down the aisle, walking carefully toward the text. Close enough to grasp it, and she read the spine.

Mind Tricks for Beginners.

Her heart stuttered in her chest as she reached for the thin book. It fell into her hands like an apple from a tree. She stared at the cover blankly for a minute before darting her head around the corner—perhaps a member of the family was playing tricks on her? But there was no one there. Hermione retreated from view and flipped to the table of contents, fingers trembling.

Occlumency and Legilimency.

A book on shielding one's thoughts. Hermione frowned, wondering if the library catalogue provided help without prompting.

Occlumency would be the best protection from Voldemort's probing, but it was a magical ability. And she didn't have magic. Nor did she have the time for the years of study it would take to keep Voldemort out of her mind entirely.

She read the chapter titles:
Meditation
Clearing Your Mind
Walls and Doorways

From the little she knew of Occlumency from her own reading and Harry's lessons, it required a focused mind. She used to bite back a remark whenever Harry moaned about Snape's methods, certain that her mind—her disciplined mind—could have succeeded with far less whinging.

She looked around the library again for other hovering books, half expecting Harry to emerge from his Invisibility Cloak, teasing her about spending all day amongst the books.

The space behind her eyes burned and she swallowed, blinking rapidly. She looked down again with blurry eyes. The first chapters sounded simple enough, possibly non-magical meditation.

Hermione slid the thin book into a large fiction, and began her slow journey back to her room.

She was just passing several doors that she knew lead to private studies and lounges when she heard voices. Narcissa's melodic hum pierced the cracks in the door and Hermione stilled, listening with held breath.

"Why does it have to be you?" Narcissa said sharply.

"Why does it have to be any of us?" Lucius replied. "He's probably fallen asleep in his dinner somewhere. Or had a heart attack while with one of his paid Muggle whores."

"Lucius, this could be serious."

Hermione pressed closer, her ears straining as Lucius mumbled something low and placating.

"How long?" Narcissa asked.

"A week," Lucius said, his voice closer to the door. Hermione jumped back, frozen in horror— but it seemed that Lucius was pacing. His voice distant again as he said, "He's ignored three summons."

Hermione's eyes widened at her shoes, books pressed tight to her chest. A Death Eater had been ignoring Voldemort?

"Something's happened to him, Lucius. He would never defy the Dark Lord." And then under her breath: "He doesn't have the brains for that."

Lucius hissed at her. "None of that. We are in no position to think those thoughts."

A long pause. Then Narcissa sighed. "How long will you be gone?"

"Just overnight."

"Can't you take someone with you? Yaxley?"

"Everyone else is concerned with the Macnair estate."

Hermione's mind spun. The Macnair estate was where Ron had been at one point. Macnair had bought Ron, Angelina Johnson, and Luna.

If all Death Eaters were concentrating their attention to the Macnair estate… If someone else had disappeared completely… Something was unraveling.

"I need"—Narcissa cleared her throat—"I need to see about lunch." A scraping of furniture legs. "You'll join me for tea before you leave?"

"I… I have several things—"

"I don't care. I'll see you for tea."

There was a flurry of footsteps and Hermione ducked behind a bust of Lucius Malfoy I just as the door flew open, squeezing herself tight so she wouldn't be seen.

Narcissa's heels clicked away down the stones, and once she'd rounded the corner leading to the kitchens, Hermione stood tall again and spun silently on her heel to run back to her room.

"Miss Granger," Lucius called out from inside the room.

Hermione froze, heart pounding. How had she given herself away? She forced herself to move, stepping into the doorway to find Lucius scribbling with a quill at a desk in an impressive study. He didn't look up at her.

"I take it that you have a habit of listening at doors like a child, then?" His tone was lyrical.

The tension in her shoulders melted. He wasn't going to kill her for what she heard. Just mock her to death. She braced herself, assuming the polite thing to do would be to enter the room and—

She stumbled backward. There was a barrier in the doorway. Similar to the one on her patio. She couldn't lift her foot to step through.

"Oh, no," he said, leaning back in his leather chair. "That wasn't an invitation." He pulled the feather of the quill between his fingertips and stared at her. "I suppose you've come to thank me for pulling your shaking and drooling body up the hill and back inside the barrier."

She narrowed her eyes, her temper sharpening like a knife against the stone. "Yes, I was surprised to find that you'd carried me—"

"Heavens, no." He lifted a brow at her. "I grabbed your arm and pulled you behind me like a dog."

She glared at him, knowing that wasn't true. But he was purposefully distracting her. She wondered how far she could push him.

"Who is missing?"

He tilted his head at her, and she expected silence, or another insult, or a taunting "come again?"

"Gregory Goyle," he said, adding, "Senior."

She blinked at him, surprised by an honest answer. Or a supposedly honest answer.

If he was telling the truth, why would Goyle disobey Voldemort? He was one of the ones who had returned immediately. He was in the graveyard in Little Hangleton. Were they sure he was alive?

Looking up at him again, Hermione knew Lucius was reading her face, knew her mind was whirring.

"I'll give you one more question," he said, eyes glittering. "Better make it worthwhile."

She felt her heart stutter in her chest. He wanted to play a game? Waiting for the right question to come to her, Hermione stood frozen, rooted to the floor,

Why did Draco purchase me?

Who has access to Nagini?

What has George done to anger Voldemort?

"Why are the Death Eaters gathered at the Macnair estate?" Her voice clicked, and she didn't know if she'd chosen the right question out of the thousands in her mind.

He steepled his fingers, and gazed at her over the tops of them. "To investigate the recent murder of Walden Macnair, and subsequent escape of his prisoner."

Her eyes widened. Ron. Or… prisoner, singular?

She opened her lips—

"Ask and you will receive within reason, Miss Granger," he cut in, effectively silencing her. "Creeping about like a mouse is unbecoming." His eyes dug into her, flickering down to the book in her arms and back. "Do enjoy your reading. Hopefully it's something… instructive."

She stared at him, her skin feeling too tight. His face was impassive.

Her fingers curled tighter around the Occlumency book, tucked into the larger fiction book. Did he know? Did he…?

"Thank you, I will," she replied.

He looked away, breaking her gaze. "Could you close the door before you go?" She narrowed her eyes at him. The door handle was past the barrier she couldn't pass. His lips quirked. "Oh yes, of course."

And with a wave of his hand the door slammed in her face.

She frowned at the wood, inches from her nose. No doubt that conversation would take her weeks to untangle.

Wandering back to her room, taking the stairs slowly for her aching muscles, Hermione started with item number one.

Goyle's father was missing. She didn't know anything else, except that Voldemort was sending Lucius Malfoy to investigate. Perhaps he had been murdered and Lucius was headed to find his body.

Second item: Walden Macnair was dead. And a singular prisoner had escaped. Last she'd heard, Ron had been summoned by Voldemort, so it was possible that it was Angelina who had gotten out. Was it George? Had he come for his brother?

And why was Lucius Malfoy telling her all of this? What could he gain from passing information to her? Was it even the truth? What game was he playing?

She reached the top of the stairs, her book pressing into her ribs, and wondered about the Occlumency book that had hovered for her to find. Did Lucius plant it there for her? What possible benefit could Occlumency give her if she didn't have magic?

Pausing in front of her doorway, Hermione breathed deep with the exertion.

Did she have magic?

Was the minty potion truly being served?

She pushed open the door, and stood in the middle of her room. Turning to her bookshelf, she reached an arm out, focusing her energy on bringing a blue spine to her.

Nothing.

Visualizing her wand in her hand, she concentrated on the magic she was born with. The magic that made her float the neighbor's cat when she was seven. The magic that set Becky Tracker's hair on fire when she was ten.

She thought she felt something fighting in her veins.

But nothing.

She dropped her arm. It seemed the Malfoys followed some of the rules on slaves after all. Perhaps it had been the enchanted library catalogue that called the book for her.

Sighing, she settled into the wingback chair that faced the windows and opened the thin book.

Chapter One: Meditation.

~*~

Three days later, she was on her sixth reread of Mind Tricks for Beginners, finding it very difficult to read theories and techniques without the practical application. It felt like her year before Hogwarts when she had gobbled up all of the magical books she could get her hands on, but hadn't been able to practice anything without a wand.

Perhaps she wasn't cut out for Occlumency, and she'd been too harsh on Harry. Clearing her mind was not a strong suit of hers. Her constantly running questions and curiosities were a detriment to meditation.

There were certain techniques that were interesting enough. A cool blue lake with calm waters, stretching out past the horizon. Depths below, but a still and tranquil surface. Or sometimes focusing on a moving target, and blurring the edges of everything else.

She was staring out the window at the grounds, trying to focus only on a lone peacock making its way across the lawn, when there came a knock at her door. She blinked. The intrusion bringing her mind back to the present.

Setting down her teacup, she took a breath and said, "Come in."

Draco pushed open the door, and her breath caught in her throat. She hadn't seen him in nearly two weeks. She'd stopped needing the potions several days ago, so there had been no tangible reminder of him for some time. Besides his lovely home and lovely mother and lovely sheets.

He was out of uniform again. Grey button-down shirt and black trousers. She flushed at the memory of the last time she'd seen him, when he hadn't been wearing any clothing. She hadn't forgotten about the beauty mark on his left shoulder, or the way his skin shivered against hers.

He stood in the doorway like there was a spell keeping him out. She watched his eyes drift down to the corner of her mouth where her bruise had healed.

"My mother would like to invite you to dinner in the dining room tonight."

She stared at him, waiting for him to say more. To explain why he'd saved her that night, and kept away ever since. She searched his face, but his features gave away nothing. Still hiding, then. After frantically pulling poison from her veins with his lips.

She clenched her jaw, disappointment twisting in her gut. "And why is she not here then?"

He blinked, and looked down to the carpets. "My mother would like for me to ask you to dinner in the dining room tonight."

"Tell her thank you, but no." She turned back to her tea service. "I will be perfectly happy taking dinner in my room tonight."

She took her teacup to her bathroom and shut the door behind her, dismissing him. If he wanted to her to have dinner or talk with him or... anything else, then he'd have to force her.

She stared at her pale reflection in the mirror and willed heart and temper to calm. It was already clear that he didn't care for her. Why did she have to create delusions for herself?

When she emerged after a few minutes, she expected him to be gone, not examining her bookshelves. But there he was. She watched as his fingers ran over a spine.

"You reorganized them." He glanced at her.

"Yes." She cleared her throat, ignoring the fluttering in her stomach. "They were organized by Muggle and Magical, then by genre, then some strange system I hadn't deciphered—"

"By publish date," he offered.

She blinked at his profile. "Brontë was filed after Joyce."

He frowned. His head swiveled to a top shelf where she'd replaced Brontë into alphabetical order by author's name. He plucked the forest green spine off the shelf and flipped open to the first pages.

"It's a reprint. 1931." His brows drew together. "The original must be in the library. I thought it was in here."

Leave it to Draco Malfoy to distract her by waxing eloquent about books.

She stood next to her bed as his fingers ran down the front page of Jane Eyre. "That's what you get for filing things with magic," she said primly.

The corner of his mouth twitched. And she wondered if she'd just made Draco Malfoy smile.

"I'll have the original brought to you."

She snorted. "I don't need the original."

His jaw tightened, and he nodded. Gaze on the bookshelves, he said, "Anything that you do need?"

She sighed. She didn't need anything besides his honesty, but she supposed she could indulge him for now. He'd stayed.

He waited for her reply, and she looked around the room, searching for something to ask for. She followed his gaze to the books as he dipped his head and fingered the cuff of his sleeve.

"Actually," she began. "There is… The Undesirable series."

His eyes turned on her, grey and warm. They urged her to continue.

"I found the collector's copies in the library. But I wondered if there were others I could take to reread?"

"You can take those," he said, eyes searching her.

"Oh, but those are..." She reached for words, trying to skate over the fact that she'd read his note from Lance Gainsworth. "They seemed… personal."

His eyes flickered, brows lifting, as he realized. He swallowed and looked away.

"I have another set. I'll have them delivered to your room."

"Thank you," she whispered, and she wondered if the deep inhale he took had anything to do with the reminder of the last time she'd thanked him—with her hand on his bare shoulder and her blood staining his lips.

"Are there other books you're enjoying?" he asked, eyes glazed over, focusing away from her. She frowned at his attempt at small talk, but then he continued. "Learning anything new?"

She felt her skin tighten.

Mind Tricks for Beginners.

They were all in on it. Together.

But, of course they were. Hermione swallowed. They would be punished far more severely than her if the wrong people heard about her treatment. She wondered if Bellatrix could be trusted to keep her observations to herself.

She took a deep breath and said, "I've found several new things to read up on. But it seems as if I'm lacking the tools for a true education."

Surely they knew she couldn't accomplish much without magic. His brows pulled together. His gaze turned to the floor, thinking, like he always did in Arithmancy when the equations became tedious.

"I can look into that as well," he said. And she knew they were dancing awfully close to the edge. If he felt he could have come right out and said it, he would have already spoken to her about Occlumency.

She watched him, eyes sliding over her bookcase, hands clasped behind his back. The grey shirt pulled taut across his clavicles. And she wondered how much Occlumency Draco Malfoy knew. She knew he could be cold and closed; surely he must know some. But was he skilled enough to keep the Dark Lord from shredding his thoughts and memories?

He turned to face her, breaking her stream of consciousness. "Dinner is at six."

She lifted a brow. "I've already said I'm not coming."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "If you don't join Mother and me downstairs, she will have my head."

She snorted, turning back to her tea service. "I'm not sure how that's my problem."

A pause. "I can't get you your books if I don't have a head."

"I'm positive Mippy would be just as useful in that department. I wouldn't need you at all." She tilted her chin up, challenging him to continue as spots of pink speckled his cheeks.

He swaggered to the doorway, and said, "Well, seeing as Mippy is preparing dinner this evening, I'm sure she would be less inclined to obey you if you offend her."

"Mippy is a kitchen elf?" she asked, startled.

"No," he said, reaching for the door handle. "She just loves to cook."

She caught the beginnings of a grin on his lips as he left. Turning to her wardrobe, she wondered what one should wear to dinner with the Malfoys.

~*~

At 5:57PM, she descended the marble stairs and headed to where she assumed the dining room was. Narcissa had waved her hand towards it on her first day at the Manor, and she had tucked it away, like she did all the other details of the Manor's layout.

The candles were burning low in the long room. A deep black dining table spread down the narrow dining hall without any table settings or centerpieces. There was a hum of dark magic, like it had dissolved into the walls.

Had she been tricked? Was there no dinner after all?

She shivered as her eyes roved the ceiling. She didn't like this room. It felt like death.

"We have two dining rooms."

She turned to see Draco ten paces from her, standing at the corner of the corridor leading elsewhere.

"Of course you do," she muttered. "I always carry a spare as well."

His eyes glimmered, the corner of his mouth twitched. "The smaller dining room is this way." He gestured for her to follow, but she remained frozen.

She had to ask before leaving. The smell of this darkness would stick to her clothing like smoke.

"What happened in here?" she said, staring into the long room, waiting for an answer. "There's dark magic here."

She glanced back at him. He was looking into the walls of the room like he could see inside. Like he could see a scene play out in front of his eyes.

His eyes flickered to meet hers. "We don't use that room anymore."

And she knew the conversation was done. Or at least paused for now. He quirked his head for her to follow him and disappeared around the corner.

She followed him to another room on the first floor, past the library and past a beautiful view of the pond and the gazebo. They must have been under her bedroom.

He stopped at the doorway and gestured for her to lead in. She turned and found Narcissa at the head of a much smaller, but no less grand, dining table.

"Hermione, dear," she said warmly. "I'm so glad you've joined us for dinner." She waved at the chair closest to her on her left.

Hermione nodded and forced herself to smile. She made her way to the specified chair and sat, watching Draco mirror her across the table. Wonderful. She'd face him for all of dinner then.

"We're thrilled you felt well enough to join us. We've all been terribly worried, of course. Some of us even more than others."

Hermione dragged her eyes from Draco's scowl to find Narcissa beaming at her, a knowing look in her eye.

"Thank you for having me," she offered weakly, wondering what kind of societal niceties she'd need to adopt for the next hour.

No sooner had Narcissa reached over to pat her hand, than Lucius entered the room, stopping cold at the sight of her. He blinked slowly and said, "Are you lost?"

Hermione shot daggers at him as Draco stiffened in his seat.

"Hush," Narcissa snapped. "I invited her." She turned to Hermione. "You'll have to pardon Lucius. I'm afraid he's been under a lot of stress lately." She shot him a frosty look.

Lucius lifted a brow and pulled the chair at the other head of the table. "She is a slave, not a house guest, Narcissa."

"I truly don't see the difference." Narcissa flicked her napkin and laid it across her lap. "As long as she's here, there's no reason why she must remain locked in her room with only books for company."

"Father," Draco cut in. A warning in his tone.

Lucius gave his son a sardonic half bow before taking his seat. "How good of you to join us, Draco."

Hermione stared between them, her mind racing. Bellatrix had resented their treatment of her, and it seemed Lucius disapproved of it as well. It wasn't a stretch to imagine that he hadn't wanted her there in the first place. She jumped when Mippy appeared at her elbow with a decanter.

"Wine, Miss?"

"Mippy," Lucius hummed, scowling. "You will serve the Lord of the Manor first."

Mippy lowered her eyes and bounced over to Lucius with the wine. Hermione looked to see Narcissa smiling into her water glass and Draco rubbing his brow, like a headache was forthcoming.

They sat in thick silence as Mippy poured wine for each of them. It had been ages since Hermione had last had a glass of wine. While reason dictated that she shouldn't drink around people she couldn't trust, it also told her she might not survive an hour of Lucius' presence without it.

"Hermione, dear," Narcissa said, once Mippy vanished. "Have you had a chance to visit the conservatory off the western wing? It's lovely this time of year."

She fidgeted in her seat. "Er… No, I haven't had the opportunity yet."

"Too busy exploring the perimeter, I expect," Lucius said, smiling coolly in her direction.

Her cheeks flushed as she glared at him. "Yes, well, I suppose you could call me more of a hands-on learner. I'm not one to take things I'm told at face value."

Lucius leaned forward slowly, his eyes fixed on hers. Hermione lifted her chin. "Do you find your situation terribly confining, Miss Granger?" He tilted his head. "Having your own living quarters, and free range of the Manor? Does it make you feel a bit feverish to experience the world outside?"

"That's enough, Lucius," said Narcissa sternly. He relented after a moment, lounging back in his chair, a smirk curving his lips.

Draco cleared his throat and took a deep sip from his goblet.

Thankfully, the first course arrived filling the soup bowls, and Mippy appeared at Hermione's elbow again.

"This is Mippy's favorite! Pumpkin soup! Mippy makes it special for Miss—"

"Do you plan on announcing every course?" came Lucius's steely voice.

"Lucius," Narcissa warned. She turned to her elf. "Thank you, Mippy."

Mippy twirled her ear and vanished.

Hermione took a deep breath through her lungs. The more she bit back, the more difficult he could make it for her. She shoved her anger aside and documented which spoon Narcissa chose, picking up the same. She tried the soup with as much grace as she could muster, noticing that each Malfoy sat ramrod straight, dipping their spoons with the same elegance and balance.

The soup vanished her sour mood, at least temporarily. It was… to die for.

Narcissa held conversation quite well for someone who could talk about nothing going on outside the Manor itself. She found ways to include all three reluctant parties at the table, asking questions or commenting upon their daily activities.

But no matter what Narcissa did, she could not get Draco to engage. Whereas Lucius had a sarcastic comment at every turn, Draco seemed as distant as possible.

"Well, I happen to love walking around the estate in the mornings," Narcissa said to Hermione, after failing yet again to engage her son. "It's so tranquil. The grounds truly wake with you."

"Granger's already gone on a morning walk, Mother," came a caustic voice. "You can stop selling it to her. She was almost killed last time."

Hermione looked up at Draco. His hand was frozen on his soup spoon as he stared at Narcissa, his features clouded with irritation. Hermione narrowed her eyes.

It wouldn't have happened if he'd been more open with her. If he hadn't kept her in the dark since the moment she'd set foot on the Manor's marbled floors.

"I don't regret that 'walk' one bit. In fact, it was quite informative," she said sharply. Draco's eyes snapped up to her. "I'd like access to my balcony back, by the way."

Lucius muttered, "Your balcony…"

Narcissa swept up her wine glass and vanished behind the brim.

"And why would I do that, if you're so fond of injuring yourself?" Draco said, patting his mouth with his napkin.

Hermione squared her shoulders. "The likelihood of dying from a three-story fall is so low—"

His gaze hardened. "If I know you, you'll accomplish it."

"Well, I hardly see the difference," she said, feeling her blood pulsing. "I'm just as likely to be injured in my room as out of it."

She felt the air in the room pull tight, like a string, vibrating. Draco's eye twitched. He took a deep breath, but nothing came from his lips.

She looked to Lucius, raising a brow over his wine glass, and then to Narcissa, staring down into her empty soup bowl, looking strangely lost at the reminder of her sister's sudden appearance in Manor.

"That won't happen again," Draco whispered. He stared at her, eyes hot and intense. "She's been barred from the estate."

Hermione blinked, stunned. Draco parted his lips to continue—

He jerked, a gasp of pain. The spoon clattered in the empty bowl. He stood, chair pushing back from the table with a racket.

Lucius was on his feet too, rubbing his forearm.

"We have to go."

He walked quickly to Narcissa's side, placing a kiss on her cheekbone before sweeping from the room. Draco kissed his mother, slid his eyes to Hermione, and followed his father out.

They'd been called. Abruptly. Possibly a reflection of Voldemort's mood.

They were gone for several long moments before Hermione remembered to breathe again. Her stomach twisted, even though she felt like she should rejoice if something was wrong.

Narcissa folded her hands on the table, pressing her lips together. Hermione waited, not daring to speak.

"It was like this before," Narcissa said, voice low and somber. "He'd leave, and I'd wonder when I'd see him again." She pressed her fingers to her mouth and said, "And now it's both of them."

Hermione sat still as a statue. She stared at Draco's empty chair, thinking of her missing friends.

Narcissa turned to her. "Are your parents safe?" She reached out and took Hermione's hand. "I never knew how to ask about them."

Hermione swallowed, tears pricking behind her eyes. "Yes," she managed. "They're safe. They're away."

Narcissa nodded, and turned her eyes back to Draco's soup bowl.

They stayed like that until Mippy came to announce the next course.

~*~

Before bed, Hermione found all seven Gainsworth books placed on her bedside table. She felt something like guilt when she first saw them, but she set it aside and allowed herself to get lost in the pages. She read the first before falling asleep. That night, she dreamed of her favorite story instead of her usual nightmare, where Harry or Luna slipped through her fingers and fell somewhere far beyond her reach.

She woke late the next morning. It was past nine when she finally tested, "Mippy?"

Nothing happened. She frowned.

At 9:20, a knock came from the door. She opened it to find a scowling Remmy with the breakfast tray.

"Hello."

Remmy said nothing, but sent the tray to her side table.

"Will Mrs. Malfoy be joining me today?" Hermione asked.

"Mistress is gone."

She blinked. "Oh. Gone?"

Remmy nodded, face scrunching into a tight sorrow—the most emotion Hermione had seen from the elf yet.

"Master Malfoy is hurt."

Hermione felt her blood rushing in her ears.

"Which Master Malfoy?" she asked.

Remmy frowned with watery eyes. "Master Draco."

She swallowed and looked down at her arm, expecting… something.

"Thank you, Remmy."

Remmy left the room. And Hermione stared at the closed door.

Draco was injured. And it was serious enough that Narcissa left to be with him.

She stared down at her breakfast tray, wondering what would happen to her if Draco died. Surely if he had, the tattoo would have alerted her?

A sudden, inexplicable terror seized her ribs, the pressure so overwhelming she found herself gasping for air. She screwed her eyes shut and drew on the meditation she'd been practicing until it passed.

She leaned against the bookshelves, savoring the feeling of the wood pressing into her spine, and stared out her windows.

If Draco died, would she go back to Dolohov?

She forced herself to breathe.

She tried, but failed, to find a scrap of joy that there had been some kind of victory for the rebellion. The guilt twisted heavy in her gut while she waited for news of Draco's health, watching as the sun rose higher in the sky, and began to fall again.

A chill passed through her at the realization that she was alone at Malfoy Manor for the indefinite future, wandless, with only the elves for company.

It had been almost a week since Hermione had been left alone in the Manor, and she thought she'd explored every inch of it by now. She kept her mind occupied by cataloging each room, searching for clues or possible weapons. As the days passed, she realized she couldn't hold out hope that the Malfoys would be the next faces she saw.

Hermione took the Occlumency book to the conservatory every morning, breathing in the plants and honing her meditation skills. At night, the corridors seemed to creak with the Manor's heavy years, so Hermione stayed inside her bedroom once the sun set. She kept meals in her room, and no one was happier about that than Remmy, who seemed quite pleased to see as little of Hermione as possible.

On the second day of her solitude, Hermione discovered the kitchens. Three elves worked alongside Remmy, cleaning and making dinner for no one.

"Hello."

Four pairs of hands paused, and four pairs of eyes turned to her in varying shades of violet and green.

She cleared her throat. "I'm Hermione."

Remmy waddled to her, scowling. "Miss is hungry? Already?"

"Er, no." She tried a smile. "I just wanted to introduce myself. And meet you all." Surely the elves had the most information about the Malfoy family secrets. Never a bad idea to befriend an elf.

They stared at her. It was silent except for the sound of chopping vegetables from the enchanted knives. Closest to her was the elf that delivered tea on her first night.

"Hello again," Hermione chirped. "Peach, isn't it?"

The older elf frowned and said, "Plumb."

"Ah. Yes." She felt heat climbing her neck.

They all stared at each other.

"Miss wants dinner now?" Remmy glared.

"No, no." She tried resting casually on the back of a small elf chair. It teetered, and she straightened again. "Er, how long have you been working for the Malfoys?"

"Plumb was born here."

"Oh?" Her brows jumped, and she faced Plumb. "So a very long time! I have read that house-elves can live to two hundred."

Plumb scowled at her. "Plumb is forty-six."

"Right." Her face flushed. "Well then, you all must remember Dobby! He was a dear friend of mine."

The elf in the back let out a tutting sound, and Remmy's expression didn't change. It seemed she gained no clout by mentioning that name here.

"Please, do go on." She gestured vaguely at their work. "I just wanted to visit. Perhaps chat a bit."

They stared at her. The knives had ceased their chopping. She opened her mouth. And closed it.

"Yes, alright. I'll take dinner now."

So she ate at 2pm that day.

Later, she'd retraced her steps towards Lucius's study, positive it would still bar her, but content to try regardless. The door handle turned under her fingers, and to her surprise, she could push the door open fully with a shove. Her hand pressed against the barrier — still blocked out.

She stared into the dim room, the window behind the desk casting late afternoon shadows forward. Spying a Foe Glass on a shelf, Hermione eyed it, waiting to see if her face clarified and formed in the fog. Silhouettes shifted, passing in the void, but the Glass didn't recognize her as an enemy. Interesting, considering that she was here to snoop.

Her head pressed against the invisible barrier, tilting to the side to view the interior walls. A series of bookshelves that had her fingers itching lined the left wall. Wouldn't it be interesting to see what books Lucius Malfoy kept at his disposal? Kept out of the library?

After ten minutes of squinting at the titles on his shelf, she wandered to the library, ready to tackle one of her many problems. She ran through the questions she had, prioritized them, and tried to find workable solutions.

The most pressing question was contingent on Draco's health. If he died, what would become of her? She trusted Narcissa's kindness in her current circumstances, but she wasn't certain how far it would extend. If she could no longer reside at Malfoy Manor, where would they send her?

Would she go back to Auction?

Pushing open the library doors, she brushed aside the fleeting, wistful hope that she'd find Draco at the stacks, turning to her and lifting a brow.

Hands on her hips, standing before a vast library entirely at her disposal, Hermione prioritized.

There was no precedent for the Auction that she was aware of, which meant it would be futile to research the kinds of rules they made for the death of a buyer. She filed that question away, unable to answer it.

Horcruxes, tattoos, or suppressants. Which should she focus on today? A dark thought pressed over her as her eyes skimmed the stacks. Did any of this matter? They lost. You lost.

Her lips pressed together. She took a deep breath.

Magic suppression. That's what she'd look into today.

Throwing caution to the wind, she turned to the library catalog and said, "Show me books on magic suppression." And then as an afterthought, "Please."

An eerie shuffling sound from the stacks, and she eyed several books pulled from their homes and hovering in the aisles.

"Right," she said. "Back to work."

~*~

She studied well into the evening, spreading texts across the large table and scribbling notes. It might be the only time at the Manor she didn't have to worry about being caught, with all three Malfoys away. Figuring out the suppressant potion was an obvious choice for her. Having her magic back would make it easier to escape, once she'd found a way around the tattoos. And if she was caught, an academic curiosity about the suppressant potion wasn't something she would be killed over.

Hopefully.

There were several herbs and crushed stones that could ward off evil spirits, but she wouldn't know the exact combinations unless she could break it down in a potions laboratory. She'd need a vial of the minty potion. And a cauldron. Hermione wrote down and pocketed her list of ingredients.

In the morning, she strode back to the kitchens. The elves looked up from their washing. Remmy almost rolled her eyes.

"Miss is hungry?"

"No, thank you." She smiled. "I was just hoping for a cup of tea?"

Plumb jumped off of her stool wringing her hands. "Miss calls for Plumb? Plumb did not hear!"

"No, no. I didn't call." She waved her hands, hoping to keep Plumb from banging the kettle over her head. "I was just going to visit, and ask for you to make it here."

Where I can watch you.

Plumb leapt to work, setting a fire under the kettle.

"I'll just grab the sugar for you," she said, starting for the shelves. Wrenching the cabinets open, she searched for potion vials kept in handy locations for pouring into tea.

"Miss not like how Plumb makes?"

She turned to see a watery-eyed forty-six-year-old elf clasping her hands together.

"Er, no. I was just going to help you!" She opened another cabinet, finding nothing incriminating.

"Miss wants sugar? Not honey spoons?"

Her hands froze. The honey.

She turned to Plumb. Remmy stood right behind her with a shrewd twist to her lips.

"I was thinking I might not have honey any longer," she tested, watching Remmy's expression. If they were instructed to give her honey, laced with the suppressant, then they might panic.

"Miss hates honey?!" A tear fell down Plumb's trembling cheeks. "But Plumb is giving Miss honey for weeks!"

Hermione's eyes widened, unprepared for house-elf dramatics. "No! No, I like honey. I like it very much!"

Two more tears dropped from Plumb's violet eyes. "I makes honey tea for Miss and for Master Draco. Does Master Draco hate it too?"

Hermione frowned. Draco. Yes. The suppressant wouldn't be in the honey. Unless there was a special jar just for her...

"Might you have a different honey?" Hermione asked, mind working.

"THE HONEY IS GONE BAD?"

Remmy huffed and stepped forward, placing a calming hand on Plumb's heaving shoulder. "We has one honey. Plumb is giving three honey spoons to Miss and Master Draco. Does Miss want different?"

Plumb was now sobbing uncontrollably into her hands. Guilt sank heavily in Hermione's stomach. She just couldn't win. She knelt down in front of the violet-eyed elf and gently pulled her waxy hands away from her blubbering face.

"Plumb? I would very much like a cup of tea with three honey spoons. Might you be able to help me with that?"

Plumb nodded so violently, her little ears flopped into Hermione's face. She ran for the kettle, and Hermione turned to a frowning Remmy.

"Has there been any news on Master Dra— er, on Draco? Any word on when they are returning?"

The frown melted off Remmy's face, and she too began to tremble with unshed tears. "No. Master Draco is very hurt."

Hermione swallowed, feeling her pulse in her ears. "What happened? Did they say?"

"No," Remmy said sadly, shaking her head. "We is just hearing from this." She gestured to the short counter, where Hermione was shocked to find a Daily Prophet.

She approached, looking down on a picture of Dover Castle, burning to the ground.

REBELLION SQUASHED AT DOVER
by Rita Skeeter

She snatched up the paper, eyes scanning, heart pounding.

The Dark Lord is victorious again!

A small rebellion broke out at Dover Castle on Monday evening led by insurgents and Old Order sympathizers. The rocky beach at Dover provided minor cover for the rebels as the Dark Lord's forces gathered and vanquished their foes.

Hermione stumbled out of the kitchens, swallowing the information, and running for fresh air. She pushed through the front doors of the Manor, gasping at the morning breeze, and leaned back against the exterior wall. Her chest was tight, and her fingers trembled as she read on.

There were limited casualties for the Death Eaters at Monday's skirmish, but considerable losses for the rebels who scrambled back to their hole in the ground, their tails between their legs.

In the wake of the new Apparition/Land-Locked Legislation, the rebels — led by Undesirable No. 1, George Weasley — attempted to cross the Strait of Dover by boat, bypassing the Apparition line by non-magical means. Recently promoted General Lucius Malfoy was first on the scene, ruthlessly cutting off the boat supply and taking out several essential faces of the rebellion in the process, including elder brother to the rebellion leader, Charlie Weasley.

Hermione tore her eyes off the words, her fingers crumpling the pages, trying to piece together her spiraling thoughts.

Charlie was dead.

Lucius had killed him.

There were Apparition boundaries, limiting Apparition to inside the U.K. only. Although it was rare to Apparate across countries and large bodies of water, it wasn't unheard of. People with exceptionally powerful magic could manage it. But if there were actual magical limitations, that would make it incredibly difficult for people to get out.

Was escape the plan for the remaining tatters of the Order? Not fighting? Were the other magical governments accepting refugees? What did M.A.C.U.S.A. have to say about all of this? They always had something to say…

If Voldemort had landlocked the U.K., did that mean he had not branched out his rule?

Recently promoted General Lucius Malfoy.

George was Undesirable No. 1, and Lucius had killed Charlie Weasley.

She braced her hand on the Manor's exterior wall, feeling breath pull sharply at her lungs.

She'd had dinner with him only days ago. He'd followed her down a hill, and carried her in his arms like a child, back to safety.

Charlie's handsome face beamed at her in her memories. She'd knelt to the ground at some point, her knees digging into the rough pebbles and stones. Focusing on the pain, she forced herself to breathe.

How many others had died? The article only mentioned Charlie.

And through it all, the words "limited casualties for the Death Eaters" ran across her eyes like a snagged film strip. Was Draco one of the "limited casualties?"

She took a ragged breath and pressed her face to the sky, letting the sun's rays melt through her cold panic. A few moments later, a cup of tea appeared next to her, steaming. She sat and sipped, fingers trembling, watching the sun crawl toward the treetops. Beneath her shock and pain, beyond her fear and uncertainty, she pulled one thought forward and focused her anger towards it.

Rita Fucking Skeeter was alive and well and writing for the Prophet.

~*~

She explored the grounds for the rest of the day. Pacing and meditation failed to banish the horrified dread in her stomach, so she found the boundary again, reaching her arm out to test the tattoo. It shocked her—unpleasant but not truly painful. Walking the perimeter, she kept trying her arm on different spots until her fingers went numb, and all her racing thoughts were forgotten. The same barrier she'd fallen through weeks ago had permitted her legs, head, and other arm, but not her tattooed arm.

It was safe to say that she could cut off her arm and probably make it out alive. Not that the Malfoys had any instrument that could help her with that.

It was evening when she finally retired to the east wing, tiptoeing around corners, always keeping an eye out for intruders or residents.

They had told her that Bellatrix was barred from the estate, but what did that mean exactly? Was she verbally barred? Or magically? Without a Malfoy on the grounds, would she have access?

The thought of Bellatrix returning for her froze her in her tracks. Draco wouldn't come running for her this time.

In his trunks and socks, she smiled, and the knot in her stomach loosened.

She paused, looking to the door at the top of the stairs in her hallway. She'd never considered where Draco's bedroom was, simply happy to not be dragged into it and pinned to the bed for her first weeks. But if he'd been ready for bed when he heard her scream, certainly his room was nearby.

She'd already searched the rooms on this floor and hadn't found one that looked like it belonged to Draco Malfoy. Maybe she had to be looking for it.

Her hand reached for the first door handle, but she paused.

Narcissa had told her that the Manor was open to her; she just needed to be respectful of the personal quarters.

But Narcissa wasn't here. And Hermione needed to remember that she was a prisoner of war in a house guest's clothing.

She tried the door, the knob turning under her fingers. A clean and uninhabited guest room, smaller than her own. She'd found this one already, and had already inspected for weapons and exits.

She checked every room on the floor, finding nothing. Frowning at her own door several paces away, she considered if Draco had just been passing through that night. If perhaps he'd thought to come to check on her.

Sighing and resigning herself to searching the other wings of the Manor in the morning, she turned to go to bed, passing a carved wooden door next to hers. Something flashed, catching the light, and she stumbled to a halt, turning to see a dragon with an emerald eye winking at her.

She blinked back at it. That door hadn't been there yesterday when she'd looked. And she had been positive she'd checked the rooms next to hers just minutes ago.

A Notice-Me-Not Charm. She wouldn't have found this door unless she was looking for it, or already knew where it was.

Her fingers found the cool brass doorknob, turning. The dragon stared at her.

This was undoubtedly Draco Malfoy's bedroom. There would be no arguing that. Greens and greys and silvers. A Slytherin crest on the wall across from her. A dark-wooden four-poster bed with green canopy curtains hanging down. Bookshelves, though not as many as in her room.

Staring from the doorway, Hermione realized that her room was larger than this. Although Draco's room was the corner suite, hers seemed like two smaller rooms had been combined.

The doors to his balcony beckoned her, and she crossed in long strides, pushing the doors open and stepping into the cool night air.

No barrier.

Not that it mattered. She wouldn't throw herself off a three-story balcony, and she didn't need to climb down to escape — she could walk out the front door.

She moved to the edge of the balcony, hands on the stone railing, and leaned over to see the grass and greenery in the moonlight. When he returned, she would ask him nicely about the access to her balcony. It was lovely in the moonlight.

If he returned.

Her chest tightened, and she swallowed.

Turning to look at her own balcony, she realized just how close the railing was to her own. Just how close his bedroom was to her own. That Draco Malfoy had set her up in a suite as close as physically possible to him, and yet had not laid a finger on her in malice.

Why?

She moved into the bedroom again, turning her attention to the shelves, to the trinkets, searching for answers.

There was a carved statue of a dragon next to a framed photograph of Draco with Crabbe and Goyle. Neither item gave her any information.

Sliding closer to the bed curtains, she gave in to the urge to drag her fingers across the fabric. The bed was made, but something told her that it wasn't the elves who took care of the tidiness. She pulled open the drawers in his bedside table, finding nothing but chocolates, spare parchment, a handkerchief, and a few trinkets. The bookshelf near his bed was filled with familiar titles, and she let her hands drift along the books he kept close to him, noticing a conspicuous hole where seven books would fit perfectly…

The bathroom had a similar tub to her own, tidy counters, and a mirror she could imagine him in, sweeping his hair back with gel or deciding to let it loose.

After half a second's hesitation, she opened the drawers, finding that exact gel and the comb to go with it. She examined his products, some with expensive-sounding French names. She could imagine him here, stepping out of the tub, wrapped up in luscious towels, taking care of his fair skin with the creams and products in the drawers. Her smile faded in the mirror as she wondered if he would ever complete those rituals again. Stumbling from the bathroom, she shook her head, choking back the fear and uncertainty.

The flames burned low in his fireplace, and she spent a few moments looking for the Floo Powder before giving up, not sure if her tattoo would even let her leave by fireplace.

She pulled open the closet doors, finding a vast space for all of Draco Malfoy's blacks, greys, and cobalts. A smirk pulled at her lips as she ran her fingers over the shirts, wondering what he'd look like in pink and orange. He had spare Death Eater robes hung across from his old Hogwarts uniform. She checked the pockets for anything interesting and found nothing.

Although rifling through his drawers was a clear breach of privacy, and expressly against what Narcissa had requested of her, she had bigger issues to worry about. She shoved aside her guilt and pulled open the next drawer.

Laid on top of other greys and blacks was the blue jumper he'd worn weeks ago while sipping on cold tea in her bedroom, as she recovered from her electrocution. It was soft.

She pulled open the drawers against the wall and blushed to find his trunks. Black. Of course. The next drawer was filled with socks. An inordinate amount of socks. She rolled her eyes.

The bottom drawer had extra blankets and a black shoebox. She pried the top open and found her own face staring back at her.

Her fingers froze. Her heart seized. A cold chill ran across her shoulders and down her back.

MUGGLE-BORNS WANTED FOR INTERROGATION

It was the article printed when she was on the run last year, marking her as a priority for the Muggle-Born Registration Commission.

She watched her image turn, an old picture they'd used from the night at the Department of Mysteries once the press had arrived. She was covered in blood, sweat, and dirt. She looked feral.

Her head spun, and she centered herself.

There was a drawer in Draco Malfoy's bedroom that contained a shoebox. Inside that shoebox was a picture of her.

She squeezed the lid of the box between her fingers, trying to make sense of it.

Other scraps of paper lay beneath. Her shaking hand reached.

"Miss needs something?"

Jumping, smacking her head on the top of the dresser, she turned to see a portly male elf in the closet doorway holding linens.

"Er, no, I was just…" she stammered, swiftly closing the box and drawer. The elf stared at her, waiting for an answer. Hermione focused on the bedsheets. "Are they home?"

The chubby little elf looked down sadly. "No. Mippy asks Boppy to bring fresh sheets."

She stood. "Is Mippy here?"

Boppy shook his head again. "Just calls for Boppy."

"Did you see them?" she asked, suddenly desperate. "Was he recovering? Or—?"

"Boppy only sees Mippy. Master and Missus is behind a door."

"What door? Where?"

He stared up at her, eyes watering. "Boppy is not to say. Boppy is just to change sheets." Shifting on his feet in his little pillowcase, he said, "Miss needs help with something?"

Hermione pressed her lips together, mind spinning with all the new information. "No, no. I'll just… head back to mine. My room, that is."

She forced a smile at Boppy as she exited, turning left and falling into her bedroom to lean back on the door. It was larger than Draco's. She followed the frame separating her sleeping area from her living space. These had been two rooms, and someone had knocked down the wall between.

She blinked, rearranging the ideas in her mind.

There was a drawer in Draco Malfoy's bedroom that contained a shoebox. Inside that shoebox was a picture of her.

A newspaper article, she corrected. From almost a year ago. Marking her as a wanted woman.

Combing her mind for what she remembered of that article, she looked out the large windows to the pond. Lupin had told them about the Muggle-Born Registration Commission last year, before they went Horcrux hunting. This article had announced her importance. It had told the world that she was wanted — that whoever procured her would be held in high regard, possibly even paid handsomely.

And Draco Malfoy had a copy of it hidden away in his room, in a location one would keep trinkets or fond old memories.

She felt the cool wood of the door against her back, her heated skin calming. Counting her fingers, counting her breaths, counting the trees she could see in the distance. She pushed aside the anxiety of being caught snooping. She pushed aside the concern over a door beyond which Narcissa and Lucius were standing guard over their son.

She pushed aside the feeling of familiarity. The memory of cutting out an article in the Prophet featuring his smirk and grey eyes, bright in the black and white print, and tucking it into her Hogwarts trunk.

Because this was war. And war had no room for her childish fantasies.

So, what would the Malfoys gain by buying her at the Auction? She was valuable, of course. To both sides and for different reasons. Her purpose had been served for the Death Eaters: entertainment, humiliation, a symbol of hope reduced to a whore. But to the Order… she still was incredibly valuable. Was it possible the Malfoys were prepared to play both sides of this war?

Narcissa's kindness, Lucius's information, Draco's concern for her.

They wanted her to learn Occlumency. They wanted her alive, unharmed, and untouched. They wanted her to play a part when Voldemort visited.

But they weren't playing both sides, she reminded herself. Lucius Malfoy had just killed dozens at Dover Castle, including Charlie. Shaking her head, and knocking her skull back against the door, she refocused. She tried to think how Lucius Malfoy thinks.

If the Death Eaters fell, and the Order rose up again, would she be expected to testify to their treatment of her?

Her face in print, tucked away into a drawer, like it was a prized possession. Even now, she was tucked away in a suite in a fortress, safe as a picture in a drawer.

She settled on one thought, boiling away all other concerns about magical suppressants and tattoos and Horcruxes until the crucible bubbled, and the new questions wafted up from the cauldron of her mind.

How long had the Malfoys been planning for her? And what did they expect her to do for them?

~*~

The next morning, Draco's door was locked. She rolled her eyes.

"Of course," she whispered to herself.

She wondered if Boppy even needed to bring fresh linens.

Every day for the rest of the week, she tried Draco's door. When it didn't budge, she wandered downstairs to try Lucius's study. She looked for Lucius and Narcissa's bedroom in the other wing, but she felt less inclined to intrude upon Narcissa's personal space.

She threw caution to the wind on the seventh day of their absence and began to reread the Horcrux book. There was nothing new. She now knew all the facets of making Horcruxes, but destroying them still yielded the same answers. At night, when her thoughts would drift to Charlie or Draco, she'd recite the steps in her mind until she fell asleep.

The water imagery in the Occlumency book encouraged her to examine the pond on the Malfoy estate more.

Think of a lake with still waters.

After a week of standing at her windows staring down at the pond, she finally wrapped herself against the afternoon wind, and crossed the grounds to the grassy shore. She plopped herself down in the grass, dropping several books next to her.

Gazing at the water's surface, Hermione blocked the sounds and smells around her, focusing on her sight only.

The peacocks broke her concentration as they cawed for her attention. She jumped, turning to see one several paces from her, eyeing her with a twitching head.

"Am I on your turf?" she said with a smile.

He tilted his head at her and then wandered down to the water, dipping his head to drink. She watched the two others slip down the bank, shuffling closer to her.

Just like a Malfoy man, she thought. Ruining her concentration and drawing her focus to him.

She took her books, leaving the shore for the peacocks, and circled the perimeter of the gazebo. It was as large as her childhood bedroom, if not larger. Roman marble pillars supported a dome of intricately designed glass and iron, magic-made if she had to guess.

Ascending the stairs, she perched on a bench looking out over the water and opened Undesirable No. 3, the third in the series. She'd decided to give herself a break from her usual reading today. The pages fell open to her bookmark, but she stared out at the pond.

Think of a lake with still waters.

A breeze kissed the surface, rippling the water. Hermione focused on the depths below, still not visible even after the intrusion.

The sun dipped lower as she meditated, her fingers tucked in the pages, and her thoughts far away.

"You've mastered meditation, I see."

She blinked at the pond, the voice beckoning her mind forward. Turning, she found Draco standing in the middle of the gazebo staring at her. She stumbled to her feet, the Gainsworth book falling from her lap. A flurry of movement as she retrieved it and he stepped forward.

Standing tall again, the book held tightly in her hands, she met his eyes.

"You're back."

"Yes, just twenty minutes ago."

Her eyes scanned him. Not in his Death Eater robes. Comfortable trousers and a buttoned shirt. Not a hair out of place. Not a scratch or tremor or bloody stain. But his left arm—he held it across his stomach as if it was in a sling.

"Your arm." She stepped toward him and stopped. She watched his throat bob. "What happened to it?"

"An injury," he said quickly. "I apologize you were left alone—"

"What kind of injury."

He looked down at his shoulder. "An Acid Hex that turned inward. My bones needed to be regrown. I'm almost healed. I just shouldn't use my arm for a few more days."

An Acid Hex. Hermione swallowed, visualizing how close it might have come to his heart. And then she remembered Dover. And the people his father had killed.

She closed down her concern and joy at seeing him alive. "Did it happen at Dover?"

His eyes snapped up from the path they were taking over her clavicles. He examined her, and then it seemed to dawn on him.

"Is Miss Skeeter printing again?"

"Yes," she snapped. "It was the most information I've received in weeks."

He lifted a brow at her. "I'm sure half of it was true. Probably only a quarter now that the Dark Lord is breathing down her neck."

"So is it true that Charlie Weasley is dead?" She could hear the blood rushing through her ears. "Or is that a lie too?"

"He's dead." The answer was swift and merciless. His eyes were cold.

A heavy weight settled in her chest. "And your father killed him?"

"This is a war, Granger." He stepped closer to her, and she noticed that he wobbled on his left leg. "Or have you forgotten?"

"The war is won," she hissed. "You won. But of course, you won't stop until every last one of us is dead or in chains."

"Right. Let me just call off my armies, Granger." He shook his head at her, scowling. "Did you really think the Dark Lord was going to allow anyone to escape the U.K.?"

"Yes, how silly of me," she mocked. "You're not in charge of anything. Least of all your own actions."

"How in Merlin's name is this my fault? It was my father who sent the Killing Curse—"

"Just because a few people were trying to escape—"

"No, to kill the man who'd tried to murder his son."

Hermione's lips opened. And closed.

Charlie Weasley had sent a deadly Acid Curse?

"He wouldn't do that," she said, but she could hear her voice tremble.

"You don't know him anymore." Draco sneered at her. "You don't know any of them. I've never seen so much dark magic. Not even at the Battle of Hogwarts."

She swallowed, feeling her stomach churn and tumble as her fingers dug into the spine of her book. She felt a desperate need to turn the conversation away.

"And how many people did you kill at Dover Castle?"

"You'll be glad to hear that I only sent off a Jelly-Legs Jinx before I was hit." He frowned at her and shifted on his feet.

"I'll be glad that you didn't have the chance to increase your death toll?" she said. "Like that's some kind of accomplishment?"

"I've only killed one person," he snarled. "It was at the Final Battle."

She blinked at him, taking in the information before hardening again. "And how did it feel? Throwing Killing Curses at your classmates and teachers?"

He sneered at her. "I'm surprised your lips are moving at all, Granger, when it's clear you're talking out of your arse."

His eyes burned into her, and she huffed in frustration.

"Please enlighten me, Malfoy. If there are so many things I'm unaware of—"

He stepped into her, eyes flashing, breath puffing on her face.

"I sliced Thorfinn Rowle in half and watched him bleed out at my feet. I made sure my face was the last thing he saw." His chest heaved, and a breeze whipped between them. Her eyes locked onto his, unblinking. "And I'd do it again," he said.

The heat unfurling from him was palpable, and she could taste the darkness he spat at her.

"Why?" Her voice cracked.

He wet his lips, and his eyes cast about her face before he replied, "He posed a threat to me."

Her mind spun with the possibilities. If he had been willing to kill a fellow Death Eater, what did that mean? Was he not as entrenched as she'd assumed—or was he more ruthless than she'd allowed herself to imagine? Or had it simply been self-preservation, an infamous Malfoy trait?

"Any other questions, Granger?" he said sarcastically, but it was a whisper in the space between them.

Millions, actually.

"What would have happened to me if you died?" she asked, watching his brows furrow, and his eyes clear. "Would I have gone back to Auction?"

His face twitched violently, like he'd been slapped. He stepped back from her, eyes tracing her from top to bottom, and he exhaled sharply. Blinking, his mask fell back into place.

"My mother would have taken care of you—"

"Why would your grieving mother spare a thought for me?" She lifted a brow at him, waiting for him to confirm her best theory. To admit that she was a pawn. Insurance.

He swallowed. "She wouldn't have let you go back to Auction." But he didn't sound convinced. He looked over her shoulder at the pond, and her confidence faltered.

"Would I have been returned to Dolohov?"

His head snapped back to her, and his eyes turned hard as stone. "No. He has no claim on you any longer." She felt a chill across her shoulders, and the same darkness rolled off of him again. "You don't need to worry about Dolohov."

She looked up into his dark eyes, searching for the source of it all. "What did you give him in exchange for me?"

His jaw tightened. The pull she felt for him, like a string vibrating, tugged as she waited for him to tell her the truth or a lie.

"The one thing he wanted more than you."

Her heart pounded and her breath left her as her mind worked through all the possibilities. "Why? Why buy me? Why bid on me?"

He took a breath, and she prepared herself for the range of answers he could give. She thought of her face in his drawer, her bedroom close to his, the way he sucked poison out of her arm. She thought of the esteem she brought the Malfoy family, the way Voldemort had cackled when Draco boasted about the money spent to obtain her.

But she thought about the answer she most hoped to hear, even for all of her logic, as his eyes turned to a spot over her shoulder and his lips pressed tight together.

"It was the right thing to do," he said.

His grey eyes slid over to her, and she studied them as the words swirled inside her ears and her chest. That wasn't an answer. Another evasion.

She clenched her jaw. "When have you ever been concerned with doing the right thing?"

His left eye twitched, but the rest of him was still. "What kind of answer would you prefer, Granger?"

"I'd prefer the truth, but I don't assume I'll get that from you anytime soon." She grabbed for her extra books on the bench, and marched past him.

She was boiling, just reaching the steps of the gazebo before she heard, "Granger—"

Spinning back to him, she growled, "Doing the right thing, Malfoy, would have been coming to the Order in sixth year." His jaw snapped shut, and his eyes turned to stone. "Doing the right thing would have been standing up to your father at any of the millions of times he's done evil in the name of that monster." She felt a crackling through her veins. She stepped toward him again, watching him breathe deeply through his nose. "The right thing would have been stopping the Auction from taking place altogether, or helping us escape, or buying Luna—"

Her voice cracked, and she swallowed. He lifted a brow, and the haughty look he sent her sizzled her nerve endings, firing up her blood.

"But if I'd fallen on my sword, Granger," he mocked, "who would have set you up in a private suite?" He prowled forward, his injured arm hanging uselessly across his chest. She felt her skin buzzing. "Who would allow you privacy, and fetch your books, and feed you pumpkin soup—"

"I didn't ask for any of this, Malfoy—"

"—certainly not Dolohov."

Her lips curled back, baring her teeth at him. "Is it gratitude, you're looking for? You want me to say 'thank you?'"

"It'd be a fucking start."

She felt his breath on her face. He glared down at her, his eyes flashing. Her fingers itched to hit him, to push him back. She was shaking with it.

"I won't say thank you for something so selfishly motivated. Clearly, nothing you've done has been for the greater good if you need validation for it."

"You wanna see 'selfishly motivated?'" His eyes dragged cruelly over her lips and shoulders, down to her chest. "We could always take that suite away from you. I heard you found my bedroom, Granger. Want to spend more time there?"

She vibrated with the need to hurt him. It shook her every muscle until her hands fisted, determined not to raise a hand to her captor, and the energy punched its way down her legs. Ready to snap back at him, she stomped her foot on the ground, freeing the electricity—

Draco jerked back, flying through the air as if on a string, his lips parted in a silent gasp. His body slammed against the wall of the gazebo with a crunch, and he crumpled to the ground.

Hermione stood, mouth wide and eyes popping, looking for the source of the magic. Looking for the reason…

Her fingers shook, life sparking in them.

Her magic.

She wasn't suppressed. Never? Or just since the Malfoys left?

Her eyes snapped back to Draco, curled in on himself, wheezing.

"Draco, I…" she stammered, "I didn't mean to—"

He gasped a rattle. His eyes pale, and his skin grey. His injured arm still held across his chest, leaning back against the wall, but his entire left shoulder seemed disfigured.

My bones needed to be regrown, he'd said.

She was running to his side before she could command her feet. Dropping to her knees, her hands reached for him, stopping short when she didn't know where to touch him.

His head turned away from her, eyes squeezing shut. A tear dripping out of his closed eye. He wheezed.

"Draco, can you"—her voice shook and fingers trembled—"Can you stand?"

He coughed, and blood sprayed from his lips onto the gazebo floor.

Her head whipped to the Manor. "Help!"

A wet chuckle turned her back to his ashen face. His glazed eyes were on hers, and he smiled ruefully.

"I always knew you'd kill me one day, Granger," he rasped.

His voice was hollow. And his head lolled as he smiled at her again.

She pressed her hand to support his jaw and screamed, "MIPPY!"

A pop behind her. "Master Draco!"

"I-it was an accident, I—" she couldn't breathe, she couldn't breathe— "I think his new bones are broken. His—his lungs are punctured, and—"

A small hand reached for Draco's sleeve, and suddenly he was gone, only the drops of his blood left behind.

She was alone in the gazebo. She was alone, and she'd hurt him.

Spinning, she looked to his bedroom window—the corner bedroom on the third floor.

The candles were lit inside.

She grabbed up the books she'd dropped and ran. Her legs carried her through the gardens and up the stairs to the entrance. The marble stairs clicked under her feet as she ran up the stairs to their shared wing, barrelling toward the door with the dragon carving. The door handle didn't turn. She had to see him. Fix what she'd done.

She stood there, panting, staring at the emerald eye. Reaching her arm out, she imitated the Alohomora wand movements and whispered the spell. Nothing.

The clicking of footsteps on marble, and she turned to see a harried Narcissa rushing towards her.

"Hello, dear," she clipped. "We'll have tea later, yes?" And then Narcissa was opening the door and slipping inside with a hissed, "I told you it was too soon, Draco," before Hermione could blink.

The door shut, and Hermione startled. She tried the handle again. Locked. Of course they wouldn't want her inside. She was dangerous. Unstable.

She blinked, vision blurring, pressing her ear against the door and waiting for some kind of sound, an indication of what was going on inside. Some kind of reassurance.

The door opened, and she almost fell into the chest of Lucius Malfoy. She scrambled back, looking up into the face of the man that had killed Charlie Weasley and countless others, feeling like a guilty child. "You stupid girl," he snarled at her.

His anger froze her, and she breathed, "It was an accident. I—"

Draco screamed beyond the cracked door, and she shuddered, craning her neck to see into the room. Lucius slid in front of her and shoved his finger in her face.

"You hurt my son again, and I'll drag you to the dungeons myself." He drew himself up, towering over her. "Control your magic," he hissed. "Or I'll take it from you."

He spun on his heel and disappeared into Draco's bedroom. The door slammed, and she listened to the echo of it bounce amongst the portraits, their whispers and sobs slithering through her mind.

She walked back to her room, closed the door, and slid down to the floor. Deep breaths, one after another, until her shoulders stopped shaking and the image of Draco behind her eyelids vanished. She uncurled her fingers, the nails digging into her palms. There was a new puzzle to solve.

She had magic.

And the Malfoys knew she did. And they didn't care.

How did that factor into her latest theories?

She stared blankly at the wall that connected her room to Draco's, the fireplace burning merrily, and wondered if her circumstances were better or worse with the Malfoys' return.

Waiting for Draco to recover from his injuries was somehow even more agonizing when they were only separated by a wall. She suspected his condition was serious, but not critical. Narcissa and Mippy kept a near-constant vigil in his room, but Lucius was nowhere to be found, apparently traveling again. Hermione left the door to her suite cracked so she could hear the comings and goings in their shared hallways. Whenever Narcissa's delicate footsteps clicked toward his room, she'd place her ear to her door and hope to hear some muttered conversation as she entered. Once the footsteps trailed away from Draco's room and down the stairs, she'd creep to his door and stand there until the dragon's mocking green eye forced her hand.

But every time she tried the door herself, it wouldn't budge. She attempted to open it with magic on several occasions, but without success. She wasn't sure if it was because she was wandless or if there was more than a simple locking charm, in which case Alohomora wouldn't work even if she had a wand.

One the second day, she snuck down to the kitchens and shuffled around until she located several old Daily Prophets stacked in the corner. Snatching a few with recent dates, she rushed upstairs, tucking the papers under her jumper and running back to her room. Once she'd locked the door behind her, she sunk to the floor and began to read.

Headline after headline of rebellions being squashed by the Great Order — the name given to the new regime. It felt like a slap in the face to the Order of the Phoenix, to be erased in such a way and written over.

Rita Skeeter certainly had a way with words. Hermione knew this from growing up with the woman "buzzing" around her, but it was only her familiarity with Skeeter that allowed her to read between the lines.

The words "small rebellion" and "dozens of casualties" appeared together several times, making Hermione question the actual numbers Skeeter was reporting. Also, she found several articles that referenced back to the Dover Castle Massacre instead of focusing on the details of the skirmishes published, as if the outcomes were never as positive for the Great Order as they were at Dover.

The most interesting piece of information she was able to glean from the articles came in a brief mention of an attack in London three days before the Malfoys returned:

A Muggle cafe was brutally attacked last night by Undesirable No. 1 and 2, George Weasley and Angelina Johnson. The Dark Lord's forces were drawn to the cafe from a sighting report, and proceeded to engage in combat with the two criminals. The skirmish left several Muggles dead or wounded, proving once again that the rebels care little about the lives of the very population they claim to be defending. (Turn to pg. 3 for a full listing of the Undesirables.)

Hermione's eyes narrowed at the words on the page, taking note of the obvious lies and omissions to suss out the truth. The article didn't mention anything about George and Angelina's capture or death. And there was no way they had purposefully killed Muggles at the cafe. Her breath hitched at the reference to a list of wanted rebels.

She flipped to page three, and found half the page taken up by George Weasley's face, grinning in a flamboyant suit, the sign for Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes dipping into the top of the frame. Below the fold, Angelina Johnson stared up at her, wearing her Gryffindor Quidditch uniform.

Taking a deep breath, she realized that if Angelina was on the run, then she was the prisoner that had escaped Macnair's estate, not Ron. Hermione dropped her eyes to Angelina's description, and saw "Wanted for the Murder of Walden Macnair" among her list of crimes, confirming her suspicions.

So where was Ron? Had he not been at the Macnair estate when George came for Angelina? She remembered what Draco had said about Voldemort "requesting" him shortly after the Auction. A pale chill of dread shuddered her.

She forced herself to focus and continue reading Angelina's physical description. Under her height and skin color, it said, "missing left forearm."

She pressed her eyes closed, sucking in a short breath. She had been right. If she cut off her arm, she could get around the tattoo.

Hermione tried to imagine it. Tried to think of George and Angelina at the boundary line of some gothic structure, staring at each other until Angelina gave him the go ahead to mutilate her. They would have killed Macnair first, thinking that would do it—that Angelina would be free if her master was dead.

They at least had wands. Hermione considered her own options. Steal a kitchen knife and hack her way through her own flesh and bone. Or steal a wand from one of her three jailors, and slice it off with a firm voice.

Either of these options were possible—horrible, but possible. But were they necessary? More importantly, were they wise?

Where would she go—armless and bleeding? She could look it up, of course, but she had no training on how to treat an amputated limb, and it could be risky with an unfamiliar wand. If it got infected, she might not be in a state to heal herself. The Order likely had a safehouse and supplies somewhere, but how would she find them? Surely there had to be another way around the tattoos that didn't involve putting herself in such a vulnerable position.

Hermione placed the information on a shelf in her mind — an Occlumency trick briefly mentioned in her textbook.

Ever since learning that she had her magic flowing through her veins, Hermione had begun pushing the boundaries of her Occlumency skills. (She suspected that was the point of them letting her keep her magic in the first place.) The more she experimented, the more it felt as though there were shelves now in her mind—places she could put things, and not think about again until she chose to.

She was practicing the technique in her armchair one afternoon when a knock rapped on her door. She stood, stuffing the advanced book under the cushion, and rushed for her door. Narcissa stood on the other side with a soft smile and folded hands. Hermione forced a polite smile, pushing away her disappointment.

Of course. It was unlikely he would be standing, much less visiting.

"Hello, dear," Narcissa said. "It's certainly been a while since I've come to see you. I apologize that you were left—"

"I'm so sorry, Narcissa," Hermione said, words pouring out of her. "I swear I didn't mean to cause him any harm. I had—I had no idea that… that I had magic, and I was angry and—and it just happened. Believe me—I wish I could take it back."

Narcissa blinked down at her, lips twitching. "Thank you, Hermione. But I think you are apologizing to the wrong person."

"His door is locked." She shut her jaw with a click, regretting speaking so quickly. "I mean to say, he… he doesn't want to see me." Something sparkled in Narcissa's eyes, and Hermione felt her face heat. "Or, he's resting, I'm sure."

"Resting, certainly. It's been a trying few weeks for him. For the whole family, really."

Hermione nodded at her feet. "Er—would you like to come in?"

"That would be lovely," said Narcissa.

She stumbled into her chair, fidgeting as Narcissa fluttered into hers. "How is he? What—"

She jumped, distracted by the two teacups that had just appeared at the small table between them.

Narcissa gave her a tense smile and hummed into her teacup. "His ribcage needed to be regrown, but aside from that, he's been in good condition."

Hermione felt her tongue stick to the roof of her mouth. Her vision blurred, and she blinked away the shapes. Remembering his body on the gazebo floor, the way his torso had slammed against the pillar…

She'd done that. She'd broken countless bones in his body, puncturing his lungs. And then she'd fumbled over him for what felt like hours instead of calling for Mippy immediately.

Hermione's lip trembled. A cool hand with soft skin dropped over hers, and she looked up to see Narcissa leaning close to her.

"Don't fret, dear. He's healing as we speak." She settled back in her chair and said, "And if I know my son, I know he probably deserved at least a slap across his mouth." She smiled at Hermione and sipped her tea.

They found conversation to steer away from Draco's health or the Battle at Dover that had injured him originally. All Narcissa revealed about the incident was that they had stayed in a cottage on the outskirts of the remains of the castle while Draco recovered, and that Lucius was traveling, as she'd suspected.

Hermione had no desire to press her on either topic. She hadn't seen Lucius since he'd wagged his finger in her face and threatened her, and she was glad for it.

Recently promoted General Lucius Malfoy.

She swallowed her fears about what his absence might mean for her friends.

As Narcissa stood to leave, she said, "I heard you've taken an interest in the papers."

Heat bloomed in her cheeks. Hermione held her breath, waiting to be chastised. Instead Narcissa produced a copy of that day's Prophet from her robes, with a smile.

Hermione couldn't help but return it. "Thank you, Narcissa."

Once she was alone, she flipped open the pages, finding another small attack in York the day before. The author claimed George and Angelina had been involved again. Hermione frowned, trying to piece together the places they were supposedly choosing, but couldn't find any commonalities. She turned to page three for the list of Undesirables, and was shocked to see Katie Bell added to the list, just underneath Bill and Fleur Weasley. Hermione tried to remember Katie from the Ministry holding cells. She hadn't been there.

Had Katie gotten away at the Final Battle? Who else had escaped?

She pondered the information, rereading the front page article for hints and subtext. Her eyes blinked quickly at the date. It had already been one month since the Battle of Hogwarts.

A weight dropped over her as she realized that today was June 4. She burrowed even further into her chair, awash with shame that Draco would be still mending broken bones on his birthday.

~*~

The next day, she wandered the library, bravely pulling the Horcrux text down and reading it for the thousandth time. She looked up Fiendfyre again. She looked into Basilisk venom.

She found nothing else useful.

When she climbed the stairs back to her room, she thought she'd try Draco's door again. She'd forgotten to try it on her way down to the library, even though it was a force of habit by now—

The handle turned. She pushed open the door and entered the room before it barred her.

Knocking hadn't even occurred to her. She shut the door swiftly once she was through.

"Granger?"

He laid against his pillows looking deathly pale. When her eyes met his, he began shifting, attempting to sit up, possibly saving his dignity.

"Don't," she cautioned, moving toward the bed. "Don't injure yourself further. I'll be quick." She wrung her hands. "I'm sorry. I'm very, very sorry, Malfoy."

His eyes grew wide, and the color returned to his cheeks as she came closer.

"I had no idea that my magic wasn't being suppressed. I thought—I thought I was being given the potion—which, actually, I'd like to ask about, but—no, another time."

She was stammering and she felt a blush rise from her chest. He pushed his limp hair off of his forehead, raking his fingers through it.

"I would never have—have injured you further on purpose. I promise that wasn't my—" She swallowed. "I mean to say, I was just very angry, and I felt out of control—"

"Granger—"

"Please let me finish." She stepped forward again, and for a wild moment she thought about taking his hand, sitting at the edge of his bed— "It was unintentional. And—and of course I don't blame you for what happened at Dover. I disapprove of your fath—your family's position in the war, but I'm aware that things could be much worse for me. I know you're just doing your best—"

"Granger, we have company."

She froze, heart stopping. Spinning to the other side of the room, she found Blaise Zabini reclining comfortably in Draco's wingback chair, sipping merrily from a glass and smirking.

"Granger. So good of you to drop by."

Her lips parted uselessly, staring into Zabini's dark eyes as he smacked his lips, drinking in the brandy and the show.

"Zabini," she said cautiously. She calculated all the words she'd just said aloud, combing them for mistakes and terms too intimate.

Of course he was here. It was Draco's birthday, wasn't it? She looked back to him, a strained look on his pale features, and she felt so foolish for rushing in here, for forgetting everything she'd worked so hard to compartmentalize and hide. The anticipation of seeing him again had been too great, and the need to apologize had overwhelmed her logic.

A noisy sipping from the armchair, and Blaise smiled at her over his glass once her attention returned to him.

"Granger, pull up a chair. Let's catch up." He crossed one leg over the other, and his eyes sparkled.

She gaped at him, blinking quickly before closing down her features and centering her mind.

"I've just come to... to clear the air. About… something." She glanced to Draco quickly, seeing him sitting up in bed as much as he could, leaning slightly to his right. "And—and I have… so… Enjoy your visit," she said, nodding to Zabini. She hurried to the door, pulling it open, and in a moment of sheer impulse, tossed back over her shoulder, "Happy birthday, Draco," before sliding through and shutting the door behind her.

Her fingers shook.

She'd called him Draco.

She'd wished him a happy birthday.

Which implied that she knew his birthday.

Hermione groaned, running her fingers through her hair and tugging at the roots as she stomped back to her own room.

~*~

She was still blushing when she got out of the shower an hour later, having allowed her mind to concoct all the different ways Blaise Zabini and Draco Malfoy might have reacted to her flustered intrusion and intimate birthday sentiments.

Sighing, she placed her embarrassment onto a shelf in her mind, putting it away for now. She slipped on her bathrobe and tossed her wet hair up in a knot, exiting to her bedroom.

Blaise Zabini sat in her armchair, flipping through one of her books, sipping on her afternoon tea. He smiled at her from across the room, eyes slipping down to her bare legs before returning to her face.

"The water temperature is decadent, isn't it?"

Hermione pulled tightly at her bathrobe, feeling her heart pound in her fingertips. She knew little of Zabini at school, only that he had been an absolute cad from fifth year onwards. She hadn't seen him at the Battle of Hogwarts — something that neither earned nor lost him points in her book.

"How did you get in here?" Her voice was stronger than she felt.

He waved his hand. "Yes, it was quite difficult to find, actually. Notice-Me-Nots and the like." He crossed his legs and smirked. "But I knew it would be close."

"No. How did you get in?" she demanded. "There are supposed to be… Blood Boundaries, or…" She didn't know. She just knew that Draco changed the spells after Bellatrix.

"Ah, yes," he said, placing his teacup — her teacup, really — on the side table. "That did take a few tries. I had to convince the room that I wasn't here to cause harm to the occupant."

Her relief sharpened into irritation when his eyes dripped down to her legs again. "If you keep looking at me like that, hopefully the room will see fit to eject you. Violently."

His eyes sparkled. "Oh, no, no. My thoughts are of nothing but mutual pleasure, Granger. Rest assured."

She bristled, then rolled her eyes. "Wonderful. I'll sleep easier now. Look, Zabini, thanks for dropping by, but—"

"This doesn't look like a sex dungeon at all, really." He stood, straightening his unwrinkled robes, and taking in the suite. "I'm quite disappointed."

She stared at him incredulously. "A sex dungeon," she snorted. "And where did you get that idea?"

He turned to look at her from where he'd just parted her curtains to examine the grounds. "Draco."

She blinked, mind twisting to work through it. But of course Draco would be keeping up the ruse around his friends. She could only hope she hadn't ruined everything earlier.

He continued, "He's been quite cagey about you, but he managed to tell us a bit about how you've been occupied."

"My ropes and chains are in the closet," she deadpanned. "Who is 'us,' exactly?"

Blaise wandered towards her bookshelves. "The boys." His fingers drifted over the titles. "At our gatherings." He eyed her, his features giving away nothing.

"Gatherings." She tested the word on her tongue. "Death Eater meetings, you mean?"

"Not all of us are Death Eaters."

They stared at each other. And Hermione considered her next move carefully.

"Where is Pansy," she asked.

His dark eyes danced over her face, pausing and thinking. "Dead."

Hermione felt the wind knocked out of her. She resisted the need to lean on something. Her fingers tightened in her robe.

Her mind worked. The last time she'd seen Pansy, she'd been running into Blaise's waiting arms… as he rescued her.

Her eyes dug into him. "Why?"

"For disloyalty to the Dark Lord," he responded smoothly. Too smoothly.

"You're lying."

Blaise paused. Then shrugged, and said, "Ask Draco." He sauntered into her sleeping area, drawing closer to her and the bed. "He'd be more than—"

He cut off sharply as his eyes caught on something. She followed his gaze to her bedside table, searching for what he saw. The book she'd fallen asleep reading last night, the empty jewelry box, and a candlestick. The book title wasn't anything intriguing — she made sure to always hide the Occlumency book within another on her shelf. She glanced back at him. He frowned, and then turned to her, falling back into his swagger.

"More than happy to give you more information," he finished.

"Wonderful. Anything else? Or can I get dressed now"—he opened his mouth—"in privacy."

He grinned. "I was just interested in seeing the sex dungeon, but…" he sighed dramatically. "I'm afraid you've let me down."

"Apologies." She moved to her wardrobe, dismissing him.

"It does tickle me to see how close you and Draco have gotten."

She froze in the middle of shuffling through her clean jumpers. Blaise leaned against her bedpost, watching her closely.

"We're not close."

"Yeah?" He lifted a brow at her. "When's my birthday, Granger?"

She pressed her lips together, fighting the blush creeping up her neck.

He smirked and sauntered to the door, turned over his shoulder, and said, "Or should I call you Hermione? Since we're all on a first-name basis in this house."

With a wink, he disappeared.

Hermione closed her eyes and filed away the embarrassment. She moved an armchair in front of the door before changing out of her robe and into proper clothing.

~*~

All further news of Draco was passed on from Narcissa. He'd finally left his room for the first time a day later. He'd walked by himself through the Manor's gardens on the next, and finally on Monday, he'd left the Manor for the first time.

Hermione kept her curiosity to herself, wondering where Draco went, how he spent his free time—afraid to hear that it was official Death Eater business that had called him away.

She looked for him in the mornings from her window, hoping to glimpse him walking through the grounds, testing his new ribs, but she never spotted him.

On Tuesday she decided to resume her daily library visits. After a late breakfast, she pushed open the doors, intent to dive deeper into Occlumency after her routine sweep of the Horcrux information.

She followed her normal path straight to where the book mentioning Horcruxes lay, tucked between two large, leather-bound tomes in the Dark Arts section.

It wasn't there.

Hermione blinked, checking the surrounding shelves. The misplaced book was nowhere to be found.

Her heart pounded as she weighed her options. After a minute or two, she cleared her throat and chanced asking the catalog. But the book finder glowed a dim red, indicating the absence of such a book in the library.

Someone else was reading the only book in the vast Malfoy library containing information on Horcruxes.

Vibrating with anxiety and indecision, Hermione paced. Had Lucius tracked what she'd been reading, pulling it to stop her research—or to better understand her interest? Did the Malfoys even know about the Horcruxes? Lucius had Tom Riddle's diary for years before ensuring its delivery to Hogwarts, but hadn't Harry told her that Dumbledore doubted he even knew what it truly was?

Without a way to deduce the answers to her building questions, she decided she had even more reason now to focus her attention on Occlumency.

She was able to find several other books in the library to help with some of the more advanced practices, including how to fend off an attack of Legilimency. The first Occlumency book she'd taken from the library only covered the basics, such as concentration and meditation. One of the advanced techniques that had resonated with her was thinking of her mind as a bookcase or a series of shelves. Her introductory textbook had a short summary on it, and she'd experimented with it before using pure intuition. But now she had pages of detail and theory at her fingertips.

There were ideas of bringing other memories forward—or, in her case, displaying a memory on an easily reachable shelf. Although the techniques were incredibly advanced, Hermione couldn't help but soak in the information, always seduced by the most challenging ideas.

Hours later, Hermione sat in one of the grand armchairs, facing a large window that overlooked the pond as she focused her mind on still waters and hidden shelves. She tried to bring forward only memories of her parents, a process that involved the effort to push things onto different shelves. She thought less and less of her parents as she stared at the pond from the window, and focused on the memories that were always at the forefront of her mind.

Draco's bare shoulders as he sucked the poison from her.

The silence of Ron's scream for her from across the stage at the Palace.

A body flying backwards, hitting the pillar of a gazebo.

Harry's small frame in Hagrid's arms.

Hissing lips, spitting acid at her from the audience of a grand theatre.

The dried blood on Ginny's temple as she turned to her, pale skin translucent in the spotlight.

Hermione took each of them, holding them like books, and placed them on tall shelves, or shoved their thin spines inside of larger ones, hiding them on bottom shelves. She pulled forward the memory of her parents taking her to the circus. Her mother's perfume bottle as it was replaced on the vanity. Her father's easy laugh at unfunny jokes. An entire shelf was open at eye-level, now that she'd replaced the other thoughts. She filled it with happy memories of her parents.

When she brought forward the memory of her mother's hand clutching hers in the balcony of the Palace Theatre as the first of them died on the barricade, she heard an echo of dark voices. Voices that screamed for her to bend over and strip. Voices that shouted her worth in Galleons.

A book on the bottom shelf of her mind slid forward, begging to be opened.

She focused on pushing it away again.

"Granger."

Her eyes blinked. She was staring at the pond from a deep armchair in the Manor's library.

The books inside her mind shivered, thrumming with the energy it took for her to contain them—to keep them in place. Only happy memories of her parents.

"Granger," someone said again.

She swam back to herself. There was someone next to her. But if she looked at him, the books would fall off their shelves and she'd be left only with bare shoulders and crumpled bodies and silky voices—

"You're feeling better?" she asked, drawing breath from her lungs and preparing to look away from the pond and the still waters. "How are your ribs?"

She focused her mind, called upon her strength to keep her shields up. Her heart pounded with an excitement to see him again. And she quieted that book, pushing it away.

"Better," his voice rumbled.

Breathing deep, she turned her eyes to him, taking in a tall body leaning slightly to the right, and curious eyes gazing down at her.

Only happy memories of her parents.

Her gaze flitted away, her energy focused on the bookshelves in her mind.

"How was your birthday?" She knew her own lips had asked the question, but the voice was unfamiliar to her. "Were you able to enjoy it—?"

"Look at me."

She felt the command in her bones. Turning her head to him, finding his grey eyes, she saw him twitch at the sight of her. He looked down at the book in her lap, then back up at her.

Hermione saw him through a haze, recognizing him, but also failing to place him. Her body filled with cotton, her head filled with dust.

She blinked, and it was like he swam back into focus. Draco Malfoy stood next to her, staring down at her with concern.

Her bookshelf cracked, and the texts fell open at her feet.

She sucked in a deep breath, and his bare chest, his broken ribs, his bloody lips, his cool eyes — they all fell off the shelf.

Her eyes stung, as if she'd looked directly into the sun. She pinched them closed and pressed her hand over her forehead, blocking out the light.

She felt the advanced Occlumency book slither away from her lap, lifted away from her.

"You're too expressive for this specific technique," he muttered. "It will be obvious that something is wrong with you." She listened to him turn the page, and then close the book with a snap. "You skipped intermediate studies?"

"Of course," she said, her lips pulling in the ghost of a smirk. Her head spun. She felt like she'd been awake for days. "Did you expect anything less of me?"

Her eyes slipped open, staring at the pond through the window again. She tried to grasp onto the idea of still waters, calming her racing mind, but her energy was depleted.

"It can be exhausting," he said, barely a whisper.

She nodded, drowsiness in her veins. "I'll just ask the kitchens for tea."

A pause. And then: "You don't drink coffee anymore?"

Her mind startled to attention. She looked up at him. He was flipping through the pages of another advanced Occlumency book, his question floating innocently between them.

She did prefer coffee. In fact, she only drank tea with honey because she'd seen him drinking it for the past seven years. Some insane notion to feel closer to him.

"We have coffee," he offered softly, eyes still on the book.

"Thank you. I'll… I'll ask for coffee next time." She wanted to pry, to dig into this observation. But she had more pressing questions while she had him here. "How is Pansy?"

She watched his eyes harden. A swift close of the book. "She's dead."

"How?"

"She was killed for her disloyalty to the Dark Lord."

She frowned, watching him closely. "Those were Zabini's exact words as well. Curious."

His eyes snapped to her. "When did you speak to Blaise?" There was a bite in his words, and she felt the ice from his eyes.

"He stopped by. Entered my room and drank my tea without a care in the world." She shifted in her seat, lifting a brow at Draco's dark expression. "How did you adjust the wards after your aunt's visit?"

His jaw clenched. "It's based on intent to harm."

"And you still won't tell me why it is that the Malfoy family has no intent to harm me?"

His lips pressed together, refusing to answer. She sighed, shoulders sagging.

"Well, if you could also include 'intent to pester,' that would be much appreciated."

The blood rushed to her head as she moved to stand. The Occlumency had drained her far more than she'd thought, and she stumbled back against the arm of the chair.

A hand on her elbow. Her head pounded as she squeezed her eyes shut, registering that Draco was touching her. When she opened her eyes and righted herself, he said, "You should be careful next time. It can be very draining."

She blinked to find him staring down at her, body close and fingers still light on her arm. He wobbled on his feet, looking pale.

"You're still injured," she said. "You should be careful as well."

His eyes danced over her face, a hint of a smirk on his lips. "We're quite a pair, aren't we?"

Her skin tingled even after his fingers lifted from her arm. He offered to accompany her back to her room so she could rest. She could feel the air between them as they walked, every sound of footsteps on the marble echoing in her mind. They were slow to climb the stairs, his ribs still healing and her head still throbbing, but at every corner they turned she could have sworn she felt the ghost of a hand on her back, guiding her, steadying her.

He walked her to her door, and perhaps it was her pounding head that made her dizzy with the ludicrous comparison that he'd just walked her back to her flat at the end of a date. His eyes drifted over her as she nodded at him in thanks, and when she shut her door, she leaned up against the cool wood, listening for his delayed footsteps back to his own room, trying not to think about how his lips might have felt against hers if he'd claimed them in a goodnight kiss.

She woke the next morning to a large pot of coffee at her bedside table.

~*~

She didn't see Draco in person for several days. By the third day, it grimly occurred to her that he might have joined Lucius, wherever he was. She concentrated on her Occlumency to keep herself busy, steadily increasing her endurance and trying out other techniques as well. When she exhausted herself after a day of practicing, she'd curl up with one of her fiction books, allowing herself an hour or two of peace and rest.

She was in the middle of reading her second favorite Dickens on the fourth day of Draco's absence when her bedroom door opened. She looked up from her wingback chair, startled to see him in the doorway.

He usually knocked.

"Yes?"

He stared down at her, his mouth in a hard line. "Get changed. Something presentable."

She blinked down at herself. She was in leggings and a jumper. She supposed she wasn't quite prepared for company, but she didn't expect to have any.

She stood, closing her book. "Where are we going?"

He was silent. She rolled her eyes and headed to her wardrobe. She looked at him as she pulled open the doors, lifting a brow. "Any requests?"

A flick of his fingers and something satin barreled forward into her face. She plucked it off of her head and glared at him. It was a slip. Practically a négligée.

"Be quick about it," he said, words short and chilled. She closed her mouth, biting back her retort. He turned to eye her bookshelves as she exited to the bathroom.

Something was wrong. He was under some kind of stress or… She shook her head, swallowing her apprehension. He'd gotten her this far, hadn't he? So what if he was in a bad mood. She'd seen worse.

She shucked her leggings and jumper, pulling the satin over herself. She grimaced at her reflection, looking much more like a whore – reminding her of her place outside of the Manor. She pulled the slip up, tightening the straps over her bra, smoothing the fabric over her knickers.

When she came out of the bathroom, he was still staring at the bookshelf, unblinking. She moved to the door, ready to follow him.

"Who gave you permission to wear those undergarments?"

She tripped over the carpets, stopping and staring back at him.

"Excuse me?" She glared at the back of his head. How dare he—

"Take them off."

He turned to scowl at her lazily, his eyes flinty and dangerous. She felt a chill down her spine. He'd made her remove her bra the last time they left the Manor, but what possible reason could there be for wanting her knickers off?

He prowled towards her like a jungle cat, and she stood still as he drew closer, aware of the growing pounding in her chest. If she hadn't recognized his movements, his carriage, the deft way his fingers twirled his wand, she would assume someone had polyjuiced themselves as Draco Malfoy.

But she remembered these eyes from sixth year. Different from his own. Something sharp and merciless in them.

He stopped before her, his chest barely an inch from hers, forcing her head to tilt back.

"Or do I need to take them off myself," he whispered, his breath disturbing the curls on top of her head.

A tingling terror rocketed through her veins. She'd never been truly afraid of him before. Not when he'd captured her in Umbridge's office with his hand low on her stomach, not when his friends had been casting killing curses at her in the Room of Requirement.

She searched his eyes.

His hands shot out, gripping her elbows and spinning her swiftly, her feet tangling with each other. Her chest slammed into the wall, her head turning just in time to keep from breaking her nose. The air left her lungs, and she struggled to press back. Her hands flat on the wall, but he pressed one palm to the center of her shoulder blades.

She gasped, mind working quickly over her options.

He was proving a point.

Or she'd angered him beyond anything she'd experienced.

Or this was some kind of dark magic, seducing him and twisting him.

His fingers on her low back, plucking at the satin slip, pulling it up, up.

Her eyes wide, staring at her cream colored wall.

The slip pulled up over her backside, and then his hand was underneath, smoothing his fingers up her spine until he found the clasp of her bra. A swift twist, and the clasp was undone.

He dragged the strap down one shoulder, his other hand still pressing her firm against the wall.

"You know how I feel about these tits, Granger." His voice rumbled behind her, shaking her ribs.

Her heart stuttered, and her breath caught. No… she didn't.

His fingers traced down her arm, curling around her elbow. His hand on her ribs, fingers reaching for her breast.

This wasn't right.

Something was wrong with him.

She pushed away from the wall with all her strength, jerking her hips back and twisting her body.

His hands snapped to her hips, holding her against the wall while his chest pressed to her back. She felt his breath heavy on her neck.

"Frisky today."

She panted, her forehead pressing into the wall and her palms still pushing her as far back as she could.

Could she call for help? Would Narcissa hear?

He pressed his hips forward, and she felt him hard against her backside.

Her mind blanked. A white slate where once she had a brain.

Draco was touching her. And he was aroused. And he was dangerous.

His hips rolled against her, pressing her into the wall. Her breath hitched, waking her brain. She pushed back again, struggling against his chest, twisting her body away from the wall.

He held her still, breathing hard into her hair. One hand held her arm against the wall, the other quickly slithered down her stomach, and as his hips canted into her again, he pinched the skin on her hip so sharply she yelped.

A dreamy sigh against her neck, like something divine had happened. She blinked quickly, wondering what the pinch was for. He rolled his hips again, his erection pressing harder into her. He pinched her again.

She squeaked.

"Malfoy," she begged, "what are you—"

"Take my cock so good, don't you."

Her body froze. He pushed against her again, groaning, like he…

Like they…

Both his hands came to cover hers on the wall.

"You like this, Granger?" His voice lilted. "You like it when I fuck you?"

She swallowed, brain spinning.

His fingers laced between hers, pressing her down.

"You're so wet for me."

That couldn't possibly be. He wasn't… he didn't have access to…

She braced herself against the wall, trying to gather her wits as his hips rolled into her. Her gaze landed on the ring on his thumb, pressing over her own.

The ring that had sliced her lip open when he'd hit her. Not because he'd wanted to, but...

Why had he pinched her?

He grunted into her ear.

This simulation served a purpose. She just had to figure out what it was.

One hand on her hip, tugging her backward, pulling her feet back a step with him while his other hand held her upper body to the wall. He kicked her ankle out, widening her stance. The angle brought his hard length closer to her center, and she gasped.

His hand pinched her again, harder. She jerked, rubbing herself on him accidentally.

"You like that?" he hummed behind her. He slammed his hips to hers, shaking her.

She looked down, trying to figure out what was happening between them. What it was she was supposed to like—

His hand in her hair, twisting her head before she could look. Her neck twinged, and she winced at the pain. His fingers tugged her locks, and the dam inside her burst.

Adrenaline skyrocketed through her veins. Her hands reached back, scratching at the hand in her hair, slapping at any inch of him she could reach. She heard a few hits connect. Her legs twisted to kick at him.

He chuckled and grabbed her around the waist, lifting her off the ground and carrying her back as she thrashed.

Her world widened. The whole room visible, instead of just the wall. She saw every weapon she could use if only she could reach them.

Her legs kicked at him, grunting and panting. She connected with the corner of the wingback chair, and it tumbled to the ground. And then she faced the bed, and he dropped her down into her comfortable mattress and pillows, where she'd found sanctuary for the past few months.

She tried to turn around to use her arms and legs on him, but he was quickly behind her with a swift slap to her backside that had her yelping.

He shoved her shoulders into the mattress, pulled her hips up, and pushed against her again. And from here it was like she could feel every inch of him. Her dress yanked up, her knickers and his trousers the only thing between them. If he even still had his trousers closed. She couldn't be sure.

She panted into the comforter, fingers scrambling for something. Anything. She tossed a pillow over her shoulder at him, knowing it didn't hit its mark.

She struggled against the hand on her spine as he rutted against her, pressing the most intimate parts of themselves together.

"You know how I like it when you fight."

Tears pushed against her eyelids. Her body sagged into the mattress, exhausted.

Was he going to penetrate her?

Her nails cut through the sheets. He groaned, one hand squeezing her hip, pressing deep bruises.

And then the pressure let up. Before she could scramble away, he flipped her onto her back. She reached to claw at his face, his throat, her heartbeat in her stomach.

They struggled with each other's arms until he grabbed both of her hands, pinning them to the mattress and whispering a Sticking Charm. He climbed over her hips, holding her legs down with his weight.

She jerked her torso and caught sight of his eyes.

Dead.

Irises black with arousal.

But there was no glint of enjoyment.

When he caught her staring, he smirked down at her, grabbed her jaw, and said, "You want me to fuck your mouth again, Granger?"

Her eyes went wide. She sucked in air. "Draco—"

He pushed his palm against her mouth, silencing her. "Not interested in your opinion."

With his hand covering her lips, he reached with his other to below his waist. Her eyes followed, and she found him stroking himself.

She choked, blinking away quickly.

"I thought I got rid of this," he growled, and then his hands were on her satin slip, ripping the fabric down the middle, and tearing her bra apart. "Much better."

She was exposed. Her breasts heaving under his gaze, a sob choking in her throat. Naked for the first time. She watched one hand return to stroking himself, the other against her stomach, pressing down.

His eyes were hungry, drinking in her naked chest. Something flickered behind the grey, and he wet his lips.

The hand on her stomach slipped against the rumpled satin, and then his fingers were under the swell of her breast, hot on her skin.

He grunted, his hips thrusting into his hand. She watched his features glaze over briefly before turning icy again, his gaze back to her face.

"Gonna paint my name on your tits, Granger."

She could do nothing but exist underneath him as he jerked his hand. When a slow tear trailed out of her left eye, he reached forward and turned her face to the side.

She stared at the wall, concentrating on the colors there.

Her bedside table with a hair tie.

An empty jewelry box.

She heard his breath catch. She assumed he was close to being done.

The hand pressing her face away slipped, his fingers tumbling into her hair, grabbing the curls.

A strangled moan. And then something wet hitting her chest.

He stayed like that, his hand clutching her hair, catching his breath.

He sat up. A Vanishing Charm to her bra, and a Repairing Charm to her satin slip.

He dismounted, unstuck her hands, and stood by the bed. "Get up. The Dark Lord is here."

She stared at the ceiling, how the bedposts stretched towards it.

She heard him button his trousers.

"Get moving, or I'll drag you." His voice broke on the word 'drag.' She heard a click from his throat, an infinitesimal swallow, pushing something back down.

Her chest was shaking and still tacky with his spend.

You know how I feel about these tits, Granger.

She blinked, like a twitch.

The Dark Lord was here.

She dragged herself off the bed, creeping towards the wall.

Her legs gave out after just a few steps. She pushed herself to her knees, eyes screwed shut to block everything out. Heat crackling beneath her skin. The smell of something burning. Maybe it was her.

Her chest seized as she was hauled roughly to her feet.

"Get it together, Granger," hissed in her ear. And then he was dragging her out the door.

The Dark Lord was here. And she was appearing before him.

She felt tender fingerprints on her skin, left by bruising hands. Marked in more ways than one, like a whore. Voldemort would be thrilled.

With a gasp, her mind sharpened, whirring.

She was being brought to Voldemort.

The back of Draco's head bobbed down the stairs as she followed dutifully.

Voldemort would be reading her mind.

She had no shoes on. The Manor's marble stairs were cold on her arches and toes.

Think of a lake with still waters. A bookshelf with leather tomes.

Draco's hand slid down the banister, long fingers that had grabbed at her hair, held her down, pinched at her skin. Her vision blurred with unshed tears.

He pinched her instead of penetrating her. Her mind was flooded with images of an attack, of a rape, but that's not what had happened.

His feet were heavy on the stairs as they turned the final staircase. His boots. His Death Eater boots.

That's not what had been happening at Malfoy Manor. Even though it should have been.

She paused on the final steps, feeling her entire body tremble.

Think of a lake with still waters. A bookshelf with leather tomes.

She opened a book. Tea with Narcissa Malfoy—her soft hands on her shoulder, her wrist. She snapped it closed and tucked it at the far edge of the shelf.

Another book: Lucius Malfoy's Secrets. Standing at the edge of a study, "Gregory Goyle. Senior," the playful lift of his brow as he baited her. A key turned, locking the pages of the book like an old diary, and the text pushed back into a forgotten shelf in the corner.

Draco walked to a door and waited for her. Fitting that it was the drawing room again.

Seven beautiful red spines, the collector's editions: A Hand on My Jaw—Healing the Cut; You Don't Drink Coffee Anymore?; The Gazebo; Strong Lips on My Arm; Happy Birthday, Draco; A Cobalt Jumper, Standing Watch at My Window; We're Quite a Pair, Aren't We?

She separated the copies, sending each of them to bottom shelves, tucking them into other books, tearing the covers off of them and sending their pages over the top of the bookshelf.

Standing by the door to the drawing room, his eyes were off in the distance like one of the Malfoy statues lining the corridors. When she reached him, he grabbed her arm and pressed her against the wall. She didn't flinch when he took her chin in his firm grip. Any memories of softer touches had been buried.

In place of the glossy red spines, there were inky, leathery copies filled with hair tugging, pale fingers on her ribs, electrocution, a week's isolation, the sharp pang of his ring as he backhanded her, and take my cock so good, don't you.

He shook her jaw, jarring her back to him. "You won't embarrass me, will you Mudblood?"

She startled at the word on his tongue. It had been years.

His eyes were like ice as his fingers dug into her jaw. "You know how to behave, don't you?"

She let the tension melt from her muscles and sagged against his grip. Like a ragdoll.

"Yes." Her voice cracked, and she felt the word float between the two of them.

"Yes, what?"

Pull forward only your chosen memory. Let the rest drift back.

Indentations on her jaw as his fingers curled. She let all memories of his warm eyes drift back.

"Yes, Master."

A flicker in his grey eyes. A curl of his lips that felt familiar and cruel. He moved to the drawing room.

She dragged her feet through the entryway and felt the Dark Lord before she saw him.

The darkness hung off of him like a cloak, dripping onto the floors and sinking into the stones. He stood in the center of the room, fingers trailing over the back of an antique armchair, turning to bare his teeth to her in a grin.

"Mudblood Granger. Thank you for entertaining."

Lucius stood with him, holding a glass. He spared her one glance before swirling his wine and taking a deep swig.

A hand between her shoulders – just like earlier – shoved her sharply until she fell to her knees. Draco's shoes in her eye line.

Hadn't taken his shoes off. Wasn't that a phrase? She tried to remember.

"How are you enjoying your accommodations?" Voldemort's voice slid over her skin, his meaning not lost on her. "Everything you'd hoped it would be and more?"

He cackled. She kept her eyes cast down. The slip hung forward off her body. Her chest still sticky.

She re-lived the entire experience from moments ago. She pulled the shelf towards her, letting those images flutter in front of her mind. Her cream-colored walls. The sound of his grunting.

"Let's have her out and about more, Draco. It would be good for morale to see her like this, maybe teach a few others about their place." The words bubbled beneath her skin. She blinked, drawing a shallow breath. Think of a lake with still waters.

"I assume you've broken her in?"

"She's a work in progress, my Lord. But I am enjoying the challenge."

The voice echoed, slipping into her mind.

"So you've finally taken her?" came Voldemort's low timbre.

"Yes, my Lord. Several times now." A low chuckle. "In fact, I must apologize for our tardiness."

She felt her body being lifted, like a hook in her back, pulling her up to face Voldemort.

A lake that stretches into the sunset. Waters still. Depths below them.

She breathed deep into her tight chest, but it was like a shark fin cutting through the waters—

Voldemort was in her mind again.

The cream walls in her bedroom.

Her gasp of pain.

"Take my cock so good, don't you."

Her fingers scratching at his face blindly—

Draco above her, eyes vacant as he stroked himself.

The sound of her clothes ripping.

The grunt from his throat as his hand twisted in her hair, the sound of his come hitting her chest—

She was alone. On the floor of the drawing room. Staring at Draco's shoes. Listening to Voldemort cackle.

There were still knives in her mind, slowly sliding their serrated edges through her. The spines of her books were sawed in half. She felt the slow seeping of her energy leaving her.

Her eyes refocused. She'd missed something along the lines of "Was it good for you, Mudblood Granger?" And a hissing laugh. Then silence; long enough for her ears to stop ringing.

"Your aunt intimated that your treatment of the Mudblood was somewhat… 'unique,' Draco. I would have come sooner to see for myself, had I not been preoccupied. But I can see now that she was mistaken."

Footsteps, pausing in front of her bowed head. "Yes," he purred, voice low and soft. "You're no more than a common, filthy whore, are you, Mudblood? You should consider yourself lucky to be covered in a Pureblood's seed."

Her fingers pressed into the marble. Her nails breaking, pulling backwards. She held the pain close to her.

"... some information from you, Mudblood. Thank you for obliging."

And then the hook pulled at her ribs again, drawing her limp body upwards. He was about to look into her again. There were cool waters somewhere, hidden behind a mountain range. If only she could see them.

There were books. Somewhere there were books she had to close—

Her head tilted back. Eyes opening, focusing. Lucius stood ten paces behind Voldemort, his gaze intense on her. Voldemort's long fingers pressed under her chin until she met his eyes.

Red fire dissolved to emerald green. She blinked, and Harry was before her listening to her babble excitedly.

"It must have been Fiendfyre!" she said, chest heaving with exertion, staring down at the broken pieces of Ravenclaw's Diadem.

"Sorry?" Harry's face was stained with dirt, his glasses foggy with heat.

"Fiendfyre – cursed fire – it's one of the substances that destroy Horcruxes, but I would never, ever have dared use it, it's so dangerous—"

And then they were younger. Ron stood next to her in Grimmauld Place, whispering to her behind a Christmas wreath.

"He said he was the snake. He said he attacked my dad."

"But Ron, that's impossible—"

"I know, I know." Running his fingers through his messy hair, Ron looked for eavesdroppers over her head—right where Voldemort's consciousness hung, like a cape on her shoulders. "Dumbledore seemed like he knew it. Like he guessed it. That Harry saw it from the snake. And then he started lying. Said he saw it from above. Why would he lie, Hermione—"

A squeezing twist, and she was in Charms class turning vinegar into wine, straining to hear Flitwick's instructions from across the room. Harry cast a Muffliato Charm and whispered to her and Ron about his meeting with Dumbledore the night before.

"The diary's gone, the ring's gone. The cup, the locket, and the snake are still intact. And there's a sixth that was either Ravenclaw's or Gryffindor's," Harry said.

"Are you sure there's only six?" she asked.

"Dumbledore was sure. Said he made six, with his own soul as the seventh piece."

Her mind whipped around, and she found herself standing next to Ron in a sea of students, watching Harry and Draco duel in their second year. She flinched when Draco produced a snake from his wand, her stomach roiling as Harry hissed at it. She felt her world slow, and then almost rewind.

Voldemort stood over her as she helplessly watched Harry spit Parseltongue at the snake again. There was a pause as Voldemort examined the memory for a third time.

Hermione felt her mind screaming. She needed to get him out, to slam these books shut. But she hadn't been prepared.

There was a slippery sensation inside of her consciousness. Something far gentler in her mind. Instead of sharp blades, it was like a table knife slipping through butter.

A jerk in her mind, and the knives cut through other spines, looking, searching.

She stood over Harry's sleeping form. In the tent. Just months ago.

Hermione watched with shallow breaths as he thrashed in his sleep, snarling words from dreams that clearly weren't his.

"Stand aside, you silly girl. . . stand aside now. This is my last warning—"

Hermione reached down to wake him, fingers shaking. "Avada Kedavra!" he hissed. She stumbled back, mouth open in silent horror. But the green light never came.

She stared down at his shaggy hair, sticking to his forehead with cold sweat. She held the chain of the locket in one hand, having severed it from his chest earlier. She felt Voldemort hovering over Harry, and she tried to move—tried to shield Harry from his vicious eyes.

But the other presence in her mind, calmer and less violent, stood behind her. Almost as if he was a passenger, just flitting through wherever Voldemort took him.

The pounding in her head was rocking her, the vision of Harry starting to blur with black spots.

Still, Voldemort slithered over him on the bunk, watching as he thrashed and hissed in Parseltongue. She felt the panic in her lungs, seizing her ribs. She couldn't breathe any longer.

And then she was alone. Her body collapsed to the stones on the drawing room floor, her head lolling to the side as she panted. A blur of images, focusing and refocusing.

Draco's shoes still next to her. Unmoving.

Her vision refocused, and she saw Voldemort looming above her, red eyes narrowed down at her in thought. Behind him, Lucius took a sip from his glass. Smooth movements. Like a knife through butter.

There was no cackle of victory. No savage revenge for her knowledge about his most precious secret.

Just a sizzling silence.

Darkness.

She blinked, re-waking, drifting in and out of consciousness.

When she focused, Draco's shoes were still there. Lucius hadn't moved. But Voldemort was walking to the windows, looking out over the gardens.

"My Lord?" Lucius offered. "Are you finished with the Mudblood? She's drooling on my marble."

Hermione tried to close her mouth, but her body was boneless.

Voldemort didn't respond. Hermione drifted into the darkness again, and when she reappeared, no one had moved.

And then, "Take her out," hissed from the windows. "I don't need anything else from her."

A cold hand on her elbow, yanking her. Sweaty palms on her shoulders, and pale arms around her waist.

As Draco dragged her out, she heard a murmur across the room—"My Lord. I would like to be of assistance."

The drawing room door shut.

More hands, cool and soft. Holding her face, tipping potions into her mouth. Long blonde hair brushing her temple as she sagged into willowy shoulders.

She gagged, turning to spew on the stones. A whispered cleaning spell. Another potion poured into her mouth, drowning her.

Temporary relief from the daggers and butter knives in her mind.

Her mind…

She focused.

Her books… Her shelves of memories and spines of purple and gold and periwinkle. They were ruined. Shredded open and destroyed.

She swayed. A lighter grip on her shoulders, supporting her. A vice around her right wrist.

"Collect yourself," a woman hissed near her ear. But it wasn't directed at her. "You might be needed back inside."

The blonde woman turned her around, and she caught a glimpse of a pale, thin boy just inches away, panting with his forehead against the wall, choking sounds coming from his throat.

She felt a pressure ease on her wrist as the woman steered her toward the stairs, a sweaty hand releasing its grip on her.

The woman helped her up the steps, one at a time, brushing a hand through her curls like her mother used to.

At the top of the staircase came a pop!

"Missus is needed!"

The sound grated against Hermione's fragile mind.

"I will be right there—"

"Master says now! Master is going with Dark Lord!"

A pause. A curse against her shoulder.

"Hermione, dear. It's just a few more steps to your room. I will send the elves in with more potions."

She barely registered the words. Her mind felt raw, flayed open. Something whispered soothingly against her temple, and then she was standing alone at the top of a staircase.

The portraits were silent. The hallway felt thick as she moved towards her door, but her head began clearing.

There was a moment—years ago, it felt like—when she had trudged this hallway, feeling her imminent rape and torture pressing down on her, before she'd seen the suite, before she'd met Narcissa, before she'd had warm lips suck poison from her.

Hermione stood at her bedroom door now. She hadn't been raped in this room.

She'd been violated, but not raped.

Draco had violated her today, because he should have been doing much worse for the past month.

He'd been clever and cunning. He'd found a way to keep her untouched, to keep from taking the one thing she had left to give. He'd played his role well—as had she.

But at what cost?

She pushed open her bedroom door and found a catastrophe.

Coughing, she waded through the heavy smoke. Her chairs knocked over and cushions exploded. The curtains on her windows were burning, still sizzling in some places, the fire contained by the room's wards. Harsh sunlight pierced through the haze. To her right, the bookcase smoked, pages fluttering to the ground still. Copies destroyed, spines burst apart, covers burning.

Feathers covered her mattress. Her bedposts had cracked, and canopy tilted to the side.

She tried to rationalize. She tried to find the cause.

And a chilling dread sunk into her as she realized she did this.

Her magic.

She'd been attacked, and her magic had responded.

As they'd left, he'd dragged her from the room, putting out flames as she focused on his come on her chest.

She turned to her bookcase, staring at her companions over the past weeks. Burnt. Flayed. Gone.

The bookcase in her mind shivered. She'd been so careful to save the Malfoys today that she'd forgotten to save Harry.

A sob shook her, and she found wet tears already on her cheeks. She leaned forward on the broken shelves.

Her priorities had shifted somewhere. She'd thought Harry was safe, dead in the ground. But she'd betrayed him.

Her knees ached. She'd fallen onto them.

Harry was dead. Ron was lost. And she was playing house with the Malfoys.

She'd failed.

Her vision spotted as she sucked in air, head pounding, heart breaking.

Harry was dead. He wasn't coming back.

And she'd just told Voldemort that he was a Horcrux.

She couldn't fathom why Voldemort wanted that information. But she'd betrayed the entire last year of her life by offering it to him.

If only she'd thought to protect what was most important, instead of what was convenient.

A wailing sob shook her, breaking her eardrums as her fingers clawed at the bookshelf. She sat like that for what felt like hours.

A waxy hand on her shoulder. A whispered, "Miss?"

She shook her head, heaving for air. She didn't want to be treated this way. Like she was something precious.

"Mippy will fix?"

She choked, panting and sobbing. She shook her head. "I can't stay here. I can't—I can't sleep here."

Little fingers wrapped around her arm, and with a squeeze, she was in a different guest room, smaller and darker.

Mippy guided her to bed, pressing potions to her lips.

She took them without question, begging the world to release her.

She slept for three days.

Mippy kept the room dark for her, mindful of her pounding head. The elf woke her once every morning to pour a potion down her throat, and to ask if "miss wants to walk."

Miss did not want to walk.

Apart from forcing a few bites of food down when the trays would appear and dragging herself to the toilet once or twice, Hermione lay in bed all day, waiting for her next dosage.

Hermione had disjointed dreams while she was under the pain potions. In some dreams, Draco's hand would hover on her lower back as they walked the grounds, and then he'd turn and abruptly slam her against a tree, ripping at her clothing and jerking his hips against her while she struggled and scratched at him. Other dreams started with him over her, pushing her face into the mattress, and then evolved into something softer, slower, a breathtaking rhythm while he kissed her deeply.

Draco didn't appear outside of her subconscious, and she didn't expect him to. She could still hear the choking, gagging sounds he'd made outside the drawing room. On the second night, she stared for what felt like hours at the round bruises on her wrist, not remembering when he'd made them. She was half asleep when she finally remembered the vice-like grip from a sweaty palm as Narcissa had turned her toward the stairs.

Narcissa visited the smaller, darker suite on her third day, but Hermione couldn't find the energy to pull herself up in bed. So she lay on her side and listened to Narcissa move about the room, opening curtains and fluffing pillows.

"Hermione, dear," she finally whispered. "I need for you to come with me back to your suite. There are protective wards and enchantments on that room for you. It's safer there."

Her dry lips parted uselessly. Safer. She jerked a half nod.

Narcissa helped her up, helped her dress, helped her take a few shaky steps across the room. And at every instance, she asked Hermione's permission to touch her. "May I assist?"

She knew, of course. They all did.

Shock pierced the fog in her head once Narcissa opened the door to her original room. The curtains had been replaced. A deeper color, a more vibrant gold shining with the sun. Her bed curtains were red now. Her armchairs a deep mahogany. Everything she'd destroyed had been replaced with something richer, warmer. Much more like Gryffindor's common room.

She felt Narcissa watching her closely, so she managed another nod, and once she was alone in her room again, Hermione turned to her bookshelf. There were five or six books there, two unfamiliar to her. She saw the crisped spine of one, and deduced that these were the only volumes left untouched by the chaos. She felt her heart ache with the loss. The fire had burned away the spine of a thick forest green cover, but she knew without confirming that it was the Brontë. Jane Eyre had survived.

With a jolt, she turned to the bedside table, searching for seven books stacked in a pile…

Nothing. A new table with just the brass-lined jewelry box still sitting proudly, winking at her. Draco's personal copies of the Gainsworth books were gone now.

Acid rose from her stomach, choking her, burning her throat. Tears pricked her eyes again. She'd destroyed it all. She couldn't be trusted with precious things. Harry had always trusted her with crucial information and keys to puzzles, but perhaps he shouldn't have. Now she wondered if she might have cracked under Bellatrix's knife if Dobby hadn't saved them. Perhaps she was weak — good for her mind, but once her heart became involved, she was useless.

Her knees trembled, and she sank to the floor and wept heaving sobs that made her lungs spasm and stung the skin on her face until nothing existed but her grief and shame. Once she'd finally exhausted herself, she lay on her side, fingers curled in the carpet. Watching through swollen eyes as a sliver of sunlight inched across the room.

At some point, a tray of food appeared on her new coffee table. She ignored it.

What would her friends think of her now? What would Harry think, after she'd betrayed his deepest secrets?

His green eyes flashed in her mind, imploring her to find the right answers, to come up with the solutions, to save them—

To save them.

Her breath caught, and she blinked back the tears. Slowly, she pushed herself up. It wasn't too late for her to fix the mess she'd made. She could still do what Harry needed from her.

She'd been meandering for months, waiting for someone to clearly delineate the next problem, to ask the question so she could concentrate on the answer. But she'd posed the right questions months ago, all on her own. It was just her now. Surely she had more freedom than any of the other slaves. Perhaps she even had more resources at her disposal than what was left of the Order. She'd just been too complacent with the Malfoys to work the problem as she ought to have been.

With a new burst of passion, Hermione stood. She took a deep breath and marched out of her bedroom, and down the hallway.

She needed to kill Nagini. She needed to work on the tattoos. She needed to get them out. All of them. They were counting on her, and she knew it.

Having now experienced only a fraction of what her friends had been going through for months, she felt the guilt weighing heavy on her as she hurried down the stairs.

She pushed open the library doors and froze, heart pounding in her chest. Thankfully, it was safe. Empty. She took a shaky breath and stepped inside. Forcing herself to set aside thoughts of the last time she'd been here, she crossed to where the Horcrux book had been a week ago. Finding it still absent amongst the other Dark texts, she wondered which Malfoy had stolen it. Would she find it in Lucius' study? Perhaps it had been destroyed if they'd known Voldemort was coming for the information in her mind.

Her addled mind spun around the possibilities. The questions she'd buried for days underneath sleeping potions and grief. She blinked at the empty shelf, fighting off the headache she could feel coming on.

Did the Malfoys know more about Horcruxes than Hermione had assumed? And why had Voldemort been interested in Harry again?

She shivered, the cool air in the library not the cause.

Why look for the Horcruxes?

She swallowed, knowing the answer required her to look inside her own mind. To work through the purpose of Voldemort's visit.

She pressed her hands on the shelf in front of her, closing her eyes and trying to remember through the terror and the closed doors in her own consciousness.

Some information from you, Mudblood. Thank you for obliging.

Her lower lip trembled, and she bit it closed. He'd been there specifically to look for Horcruxes. That's why the Malfoys hadn't been prepared for his visit. What Draco had chosen to do — to do to her — had turned out to be a necessary precaution. Voldemort had decided to check on her treatment as a secondary motive, but he was there for the Horcruxes.

Hermione blinked, staring at the spot where the Horcrux book should be filed, as if she could will it into existence. It wouldn't tell her anything she didn't already know, but it would be a comfort of sorts.

She tried to think. She had been right — Harry had likely been an unintentional Horcrux. A part of Voldemort's soul had split from him the night the Killing Curse had rebounded, and attached itself to Harry. Voldemort had filtered through the only memories she had that could possibly prove that theory. So she wasn't alone in her hypothesis. But what had tipped Voldemort off?

A sliver of hope tugged at her ribs — was Harry alive?

She'd seen his body in the courtyard, but had he survived after all? She hadn't known he was going into the Forest to meet Voldemort, or she would have stopped him. The last time she'd seen him, he'd been clutching Snape's memories, racing for Dumbledore's Pensieve. What had he discovered that made him surrender himself?

She remembered the urgency in Snape's voice as he wheezed blood and begged Harry to take his memories. She’d suspected then that he wasn't loyal to Voldemort, though it was impossible to confirm now. Perhaps he'd known about the Horcrux. Found a way for Harry to fake his own death, while killing the piece of Voldemort inside of him. Skepticism warred with the burning hope in her ribs. It was highly unlikely — and yet, why would Voldemort care about Harry if he was dead?

The headache was returning. Hermione rubbed her temples, knowing it was no use guessing about what was in Snape's memories. She would never see them.

The library doors creaked.

She whipped around and stepped to the side, peering through the stacks towards the entrance, heartbeat thundering.

His cheekbones cut through his skin; even in the distance, she could see that. He was hunched, his shoulders folded over on top of his ribs, his hair thin and greasy. His skin seemed grey.

Take my cock so good, don't you.

She felt her body tremble. Her lungs refused to fill.

You want me to fuck your mouth again, Granger?

Standing in the open doorway, he pulled his wand. She watched him mutter, "Homenem Revelio," and the wand sparked blue, indicating there was someone in the room. Her.

She dug her nails into her palms, preparing herself, when his eyes flicked over the shelves, and he stepped back, quietly closing the doors behind him. As if he'd never been there at all.

It was ten minutes before she could trust her legs to move again. She grabbed several texts on Celtic magic, chest seizing, and sprinted back to the safety of her room, all earlier bravery forgotten.

Taking calming breaths, she leaned her head back on the closed door, staring at her new room. She hadn't let herself think about Draco since that night. But she had to think this through. They couldn't avoid each other forever.

Her chest twinged painfully at the thought of his pinched skin. He'd looked even worse than he did sixth year. She screwed her eyes shut, willing the image away. She had to use her brain, as her heart had failed before.

Draco did not want to harm her. In fact, it was quite clear that hurting her was one of the most traumatic things he'd ever gone through—

Her heart thumped with the possibilities, but her mind forced them aside.

She tried to put herself in Draco's position and found little fault in his logic. He'd made the safest choice that night. If he'd cued her in somehow, she might not have managed to convince Voldemort that she was being routinely attacked.

Her mind moved to the next point: Draco was actively absent — not visiting, not entering rooms she was in.

Not apologizing.

She stopped herself. Too close to her heart. Reeling back, her mind fought for logic.

Draco was either convinced she didn't want to see him, or he didn't want to see her.

That was fine. Either of those were acceptable, logical answers.

She stared down at her books, and another thought struck her.

Her greatest chance of exiting the property was under Draco Malfoy's watch.

Until she found a way around the tattoos, Hermione needed him. They couldn't keep running away from each other. Eventually, she would have to seek him out, and hope he would allow it.

Turning to her measly book collection, she grimaced at the burned titles. She set down the books from the downstairs library, and ran her fingers across the two new books. They weren't new, per se, but they hadn't been there a week ago. Solidly bound but withering with the years, they felt older than her by several lifetimes. She checked the copyright pages.

Great Expectations
by Charles Dickens
Printed London, 1861

Les Miserables
by Victor Hugo
Printed London, 1862

The heartbeat that she'd suppressed earlier thundered. First editions.

As she brought her face close to the pages, inhaling the musk of aged parchment and letterpress ink that had survived over a hundred years, she thought back to her earlier assessment.

Perhaps he was apologizing.

She placed them next to Jane Eyre, the only hundred-year-old text that had survived the fire.

All three leatherbound copies had lived through terrible things.

She could do the same.

~*~

After a full afternoon of research, she slept for the first time without a potion. When she woke in the morning, gold-tinted sunlight shimmering across her walls, there were two new books on her shelves. She pulled herself from the bed, and examined them.

Hogwarts: A History
Bathilda Bagshot
Printed London, 1984

Hogwarts: A History - Revised
Bathilda Bagshot
Printed London, 1996

Her eyes widened and her fingers itched. Comparing two editions side-by-side? Her skin tingled with the desire. She reshelved them, and promised she'd wait until the end of the day to crack them open. Her traitorous heart fluttered on her way to the library that day, as she let her mind briefly wonder where Draco was finding these books.

She spent a week looking into magical slavery. The catalog returned an assortment of books on the history of enslavement in Europe, Asia, the Americas, and of course the Roman Empire. To her chagrin, no charms or potions books turned up. But at least it was a start.

She started with the more recent European history books. The problem was that there was no modern precedent for magical enslavement in Europe—apart from house-elves, of course, but their magic worked quite differently. Any magical enslavement in recent centuries was taboo, so there were no records. There were rumors of magical slavery in more shadowy parts of the continent, but it was hard to find research on spellwork that no one admitted to doing. But she was certain that magic as powerful and quickly developed as the tattoos had been inspired by something. She only had to find the seeds.

Looking into the significance of tattoos and skin branding in ancient cultures like the Celts had taken her down a rabbit hole that she never saw the bottom of, so she stopped there, letting her mind wander as she ran her fingers over her own tattoo.

D.M.

She wondered what Blaise knew about the tattoos. Though Pansy's tattoo hadn't been activated by the estate, he must have known something about them in order to remove hers. She could have asked him weeks ago if her head had been in the right place.

A new book arrived on her bedroom shelf every morning. In the evenings, after a long day's work in the library, she'd reward herself by perusing its hundred-year-old pages, willing herself not to think about how the book had gotten there.

After a frustrating day of making little progress, she decided on a change of scenery. Hermione took several history books and headed toward the Conservatory. The air there was clear and easy on her mind. Passing the kitchens and the dining room, she wound her way toward the western wing of the Manor.

She heard his footsteps before she saw him.

Her steps faltered, and she squeezed the books into her chest.

Not his Death Eater boots. They made a harsher sound against the marble.

She stood in the middle of the corridor leading to the western wing, like a broomstick accident waiting to happen.

He turned the corner, twenty paces away, eyes fixed on a stack of parchment in his hand. He looked thinner, if possible. Bones protruding from his face and chest like knives.

His eyes glanced up at her when he was halfway down the corridor.

His body jolted, dropping half his paperwork. She could see the violet bruises of exhaustion under his eyes from halfway across the room. Sucking in a rattling breath, she watched as his gaze dropped to the marble, his knees shaky as he bent to pick up the papers he'd fumbled. He stood and pressed back against the wall, eyes cast down.

And she was reminded of the first years that would jump out of the Slytherin King's path whenever he swept down the Hogwarts corridors. But to look at him now...

He waited, allowing her to pass with as little disturbance of the air she breathed as possible. She propelled her feet forward, feeling like she was passing through another cloud of grief, just aching to find the clean air and light again.

She thought of her bookcase, a slow-growing apology, a rebuilding of sorts. She thought of pale fingers on her wrist, breaking the capillaries and bruising the bones, unable to let go.

Stopping in front of him, she waited. His eyes didn't flicker upward. He stared off, across the floor, glazed eyes and held breath.

"Thank you for my books," she whispered.

She watched his throat swallow. Her chest was tight with the desire for normalcy, for where they had been before. Her hand lifted, fingers stretched to touch—

His grey eyes flickered to meet hers. Hollow. Her hand dropped. She continued moving through the corridor, pushing aside her thundering heart and her aching chest — her desire to comfort and bring color back to his skin.

When she reached the end of the hallway, she looked back and found a thin figure still leaning against the wall, bleeding into the background of his own manor.

~*~

Lucius Malfoy still had not returned. It had been two weeks since he'd left with Voldemort, and still the questions swirled in her mind. He'd offered "assistance" — whatever that meant. She remembered the feeling of two presences in her mind in the drawing room, one smoother and dull. She was fairly certain that Lucius had seen what Voldemort did in her mind, but she hadn't the faintest idea what he'd chosen to do what that information.

She sat in the Conservatory, staring out at the July day with a book in her lap. It was the closest she'd gotten to the outdoors. At first, after running into Draco, she'd been hesitant to leave her routine of library to conservatory to library to bed. But as the days passed, she grew anxious to see him. If she was going to help the Order, she needed to be on good terms with him. She needed his access, his information. Knowingly or unknowingly.

She began seeing Narcissa again. Reading and taking long walks through the Manor, in places she could easily be seen. If Draco realized that she was letting things return to "normal," then perhaps so could he. Narcissa tried to make up for the absence of the others by meeting Hermione in the mornings for tea (and coffee) and chatting about novels and holidays and other things normal people discussed. When the guilt gnawed at her insides, Hermione reminded herself that their conversations might make it back to Draco. She tried not to let herself think about whether he was sleeping, or whether he'd put on any weight.

It had been ten days since the incident in the hallway, and Hermione was halfway through the first volume of Medieval Magical Europe. She sighed and snapped it closed, having finished another useless chapter.

Considering Blaise again and his rescue of Pansy, she realized that Draco surely knew of his plans. Had he not bought her? Was he not shocked to hear that only one slave arrived that night? Hermione hummed into her coffee cup, and thought of what information she could pry from Draco if only they could talk again, like they used to. Thinking back to the gazebo, she knew he was open to giving her information. What did Draco know about the tattoos and their removal?

She sipped her coffee, breathing in the moist air between the vines. The conservatory windows stretched to the ceiling in a wide dome, allowing all the sunlight in. She sometimes saw Hix, the grounds elf, trimming and watering the trees and plants, but there was no movement except the gentle rustle of branches stretching toward the light.

So when the pop of apparition cracked across the leaves and flowers, Hermione dropped her coffee cup, shattering it when Mippy arrived in front of her.

"Miss!"

Her hand flew to her chest, calming her own heartbeat. Her blood ran cold at the elf's terrified eyes.

"Miss has to go to her room!" Mippy extended a hand. "Mippy takes you now!"

She gathered her books with fumbling fingers, remembering the daggers of red eyes and the burning books—

With a squeeze, Mippy popped them away and into her bedroom.

"Is it the Dark Lord?" Hermione asked, voice trembling.

"No, Miss. Missus and Master Draco has visitors! It's not being safe for Miss downstairs." Mippy wrung her hands and disappeared with another pop!

Hermione stared at the spot where the little girl elf had been, feeling her fear shift to curiosity.

Visitors. She'd never known the Malfoys to have friends to drop by for a friendly chat.

A small war raged inside her chest. Mippy had made it seem urgent that she was not found downstairs. But this safety — this complacency, waiting for other people to control what happened to her — it would get her nowhere.

And if someone was downstairs discussing Death Eater business… Perhaps Lucius was back?

The need for answers, the need to be useful, the need to not just sit here and wait for something else awful to happen to her — those needs won out.

She slipped through her door, looking both ways as if she was about to cross a dangerous street. Her feet were soft on the marble as she descended the stairs, stopping at the bottom to stare at the fireplaces, expecting an entire dinner party to pour through the fire at any moment.

The drawing room door was closed. She suspected that was where Narcissa Malfoy entertained guests. But she was sure to be caught if she stood in the doorway with her ear pressed to the wood. She tried to think.

There was a rarely used ballroom attached to the drawing room. She suspected it was for parties and grand affairs. There was little chance anyone would be walking that direction if they were leaving the drawing room.

Hermione hurried through the corridor, sweeping past the kitchens and all the little hiding spots she'd memorized in the past two months. Pushing open the backdoor to the ballroom as slowly as she could, she saw there was no one inside and dashed to the door leading to the drawing room. It was cracked open.

Peeking through the door, she found Narcissa seated in an armchair, an untouched glass of brandy next to her. Draco stood to her side, holding a Firewhisky. A thin older man paced in front of them, using a cane but still moving deftly through the room. When he turned, Hermione saw his face.

Nott, Sr.

She searched the rest of the room and found a thin boy examining the paintings on the wall. Theodore. She watched him sip his Firewhisky and sneer at the taste while his back was turned to the room.

Her ears honed in.

"...project that needs quite a bit of research. Theo and I were hoping to spend the day in your library. Privately, if we may."

"I see," Narcissa said. "I do wish Lucius was here to assist you, but of course you're welcome to—"

"May I ask what kind of project?" Draco cut in coolly.

Theo turned to look at him. Nott took a long sip from his glass. "A confidential request from the Dark Lord," he said with a smirk. And then back to Narcissa, as if Draco hadn't spoken at all. "Wherever has Lucius run off to?"

A tense pause before Draco's voice lilted, "A confidential request from the Dark Lord."

Hermione watched Nott smile slowly.

"Our family is honored to serve him," Narcissa said.

Theo waved his glass carelessly. "Does it have anything to do with what's happening in France?"

Three heads turned to face him. Mistaking their reactions as impressed, he continued, "We're in his confidence as well, you know. No use in putting on airs around us." Hermione watched as Nott Sr. frowned at his son.

Narcissa took the lead and spoke softly. "I'm sure I don't know, Theo. The mission was between Lucius and the Dark Lord."

Theo nodded and sipped from his glass, oblivious to his father's exasperated glare across the room.

"As your husband has sensitive orders from the Dark Lord, so do I," Nott said smoothly. "I appreciate your graciousness as always, Narcissa."

"Be that as it may, sir, my father's not at home. Nor is he asking for assistance in yours." A delicate pause. "How can we be of service to you in your research?" Draco spoke with the elegant disdain of the upper class. He looked better, healthier. His hair was clean, and his skin clear again.

A prolonged silence. And then: "It concerns the Apparition line. And the incident in Liverpool last week."

Hermione's heart pounded. The last time she'd heard of the Apparition line had been at Dover Castle, where people were trying to get out.

"We're looking for texts on obscure wards, ones they're less likely to—"

Nott Sr. cut off. She heard him mutter something, and just as she leaned in closer to hear better, the door banged open, revealing her there in the doorway.

Four pairs of eyes turned to her as her blood ran cold. Draco shifted on his feet, one hand putting down his drink while his other reached for his wand. His eyes were murderous.

"Ah-ha!" Nott said. "The little filth just triggered my Eavesdropping Charm."

Hermione was deciding if running would even be an option as Nott's wand flicked, and her body was brought into the room, zooming through furniture to tumble at their feet.

Narcissa stood, and the icy look she concentrated on Hermione froze her heart.

"What have I told you about wandering the Manor?" Narcissa hissed.

Hermione's mouth gaped open, and she scrambled for a role to play. "Please—it's not what you think. I'm sorry—"

"Not nearly as sorry as you will be," said Narcissa, her voice soft and venomous.

"Hmm," said Nott. "She doesn't look like she has Dragon Pox to me."

The room took a breath. She looked up to Nott Sr.'s withered face from her place at his feet. He leered down at her.

"Of course she doesn't. Draco just doesn't like to share," Theo said with a chuckle. Hermione flicked her eyes over to where Theo grinned at her.

"Not at all, I assure you," Draco said casually. "But you're right about the Dragon Pox. It turned out to be some Muggle disease. Something filthy that she brought in with her."

"We're very careful with Dragon Pox in this family," Narcissa said to Nott. "Lucius' father died from it, you remember."

Nott lifted the tip of his cane to her chin, tilting her face back with the cold end. Hermione swallowed and met his eyes. "So, we'll be seeing more of her then?" His double meaning wasn't lost on her as the end of his cane trailed down her neck and tugged at the collar of her jumper.

"I expect so," Draco grit out.

"Good. We purchased a male slave, you know. Excellent for labor, but obviously limited in other uses." He laughed, and Hermione's stomach roiled.

"Mippy!" Narcissa called. The pop of the elf appearing. "Take the Mudblood back to the dungeons. Make sure she stays there."

Like a slice to her stomach, hearing Narcissa use that word. She blinked away her fuzzy vision as the end of Nott's cane began to dip below her collar. Mippy's hand wrapped around her wrist, and then she was squeezed through, arriving…

In the dungeons.

She turned on her knees to face the little elf.

"Mippy is sorry! Mippy tells Miss to stay upstairs!" Mippy's lips trembled, and then she Disapparated.

Hermione stood, spinning in a circle as she took in her surroundings, expecting a dragon to emerge from the shadows. She'd never been down in the dungeons before. Only Harry and Ron had been dragged down here while Bellatrix kept her upstairs. The air was thick and moist, and there seemed to be a draft coming from somewhere.

Moving to the stairs, she found her feet couldn't climb. Mippy had cast a ward against her leaving the dungeon. She huffed and leaned against the stones. Perhaps she'd regret vexing Mippy later, but the information she'd learned had been worth it.

People were successfully getting out. She considered Liverpool — at first glance, not a particularly important location. But it was close to the water. The Apparition Line.

Her mind whirred. George and Angelina's attacks had been deliberately planned away from Liverpool. Diversions.

She desperately wanted to know who had escaped. Was it anyone she knew? Any of the Lots? Had Ron or Ginny gotten out?

A cold shiver passed over her.

If Voldemort was looking for Harry in her mind…

If there was any chance that Harry had survived the Final Battle…

She chewed on her lip, thinking.

Perhaps he'd gotten out somehow, preparing to regroup…

Her eyes drifted up, catching on the dark corners of the dungeon. There was no way for her to know. Not right now, anyway.

Hermione stepped forward into the shadows and examined the space. She hadn't considered that the dungeons would be worth looking into before — there would be no way out down here for certain.

One torch lit the room, flickering near the stairs. There were shackles and chains mounted to the walls and an ominous table with cuffs, something dating back centuries.

A small blanket folded carefully lay next to a stone pillar. Beside it, a game of jacks and a few cards belonging to an Exploding Snap set.

Luna.

Hermione swallowed. Luna had been kept here. And according to her, Draco had visited with her. Kept her company and told her about what was happening at school.

This is where prisoners were kept. This should have been where she was kept. A wave of grief crashed over her, knowing that countless friends and classmates had been kept in similar locations for the past few months. She simmered in her own thoughts, staving off tears by focusing on what she'd just heard about Liverpool.

Possibly twenty minutes later, she heard the grate at the top of the stairs creak open. Scrambling to a pillar out of instinct, her blood was still pumping furiously when recognizable boots stomped down the stone steps, followed by thin legs she knew.

"What the fuck, Granger?" he hissed before he even fully appeared in the opening of the stairs.

"There are people getting out?" Her skin tingled with the questions she needed answered.

"What don't you understand about 'stay in your room—'"

"Who? How many?"

"—fucking idiot sometimes, you know that?"

"Answer the damn question!"

"I don't know!" The shout silenced them both. He swallowed, the tension thick and heavy around them. And then, more quietly: "It's just whispers and gossip at this point—"

"Could Harry have gotten out?" As soon as the words left her lips, she knew it was absurd — even before she saw the expression on Draco's face. Still, she whispered, "Is Harry alive?"

He stared at her as if she were a ghost. "Granger," he said slowly, like she could break. "I have no reason to believe that Potter is alive." He tilted his head at her. "Do you?"

She considered the information that Voldemort had been looking for. The possibility that Harry had two souls inside of himself…

Draco stepped forward, still watching her warily. "Do you really believe that if Potter were alive, he would have allowed the Auction to take place? That he wouldn't have been storming the gates every day you've been here?"

Looking up at him, blinking quickly, she felt her heart breaking again, just as it had in the courtyard when she'd seen his small body in Hagrid's arms.

She turned away, her fingers playing with a thread on her jumper. "No. No, I suppose you're right. It was an unfounded theory." She closed her eyes, struggling to collect herself. She took a deep breath. "Nott is here to use the library?"

"Yes."

"And why did I have Dragon Pox?"

His tired eyes sharpened as they ran across her face, remembering his irritation with her. "It doesn't matter now."

"Where will he be seeing 'more of me,'" she said, repeating Nott's words from earlier.

Draco pressed his lips together in a fine line, and glared at the stone floor. "We'll be going out on Friday."

Her pulse pounded. The only other time she'd gone "out," they'd visited Hogwarts. "What does that mean?"

"There is a party every weekend. You've had Dragon Pox for four weeks, too ill to attend." His voice dripped with cold irritation. "And now, you are no longer ill."

"What kind of party?" Her voice cracked.

His eyes drilled into her with a look that said, You know.

Trying to keep her breath steady under the weight of her ribs, she realized something. "Are there other Lots there?"

When he nodded, her heart skipped a beat, her mind running wild with the opportunities—

"The Weasleys are never in attendance," he said, clearly reading her. A heavy silence. "They don't tend to play nice with others."

She stared up at him, feeling a familiar irritation surge through her. "And will I be expected to 'play nice?'"

His eyes flashed at her, and he said, "You're too smart not to."

He was right. She'd been looking for a way out of the Manor. And now that she'd gotten it, she wouldn't spoil it.

Turning on his heel, much like Snape used to, he swept to the stairs and paused at the first step, inviting her to follow. They wound up the back staircase in silence, avoiding the route that passed the library, and arrived in their shared hallway with a series of twists and turns that Hermione hadn't been able to memorize yet.

He paused outside her door, and she turned to him. "Friday?"

"At ten."

Her mouth fell open. "In the evening?"

He lifted a brow and deadpanned, "Do you have an early exam in the morning, Granger?"

And it was so familiar, and so dramatic, and so normal… Her lips twitched, and she had to tilt her chin away to keep from smiling at him.

She pushed open her bedroom door and saw him step back in the corner of her eye, giving her a wide berth of space to enter her room unimpeded. Casting one last glance at him, she asked, "Are you expected to join them now? The Notts?"

"Yes."

She paused, and said, "You should mess your hair."

His eyes, which had been solidly fixed on her knees, snapped up.

"If you've been 'dealing with your Mudblood.'" His eye twitched, as if she'd hissed it at him. "In your sex dungeon," she clarified. The corner of her mouth pulled upwards.

He stared at her for a moment and then nodded at the ground, running a hand through his hair absently. Smoothing it — the exact opposite of what was necessary.

She gave an exasperated sigh and found herself stepping forward, reaching up, and dragging her fingers through his fringe, pulling it forward over his eyes, separating the oily strands and rustling the top where she could reach.

Suddenly his head jerked back, his body following, stumbling to the opposite wall.

She jumped, pulling her hand back as if she'd burned him.

"Sorry," he gasped, as if he'd been the one touching without permission, and then he was racing through the hall and down the stairs before she could blink.

She read the revised Hogwarts: A History from front to back that night to keep herself from thinking about it.

~*~

Friday evening arrived, and with it, a green silk slip, a pair of low black heels, and a thin gold choker necklace that she could only assume was meant to be a collar of sorts.

A concubine, to be paraded around, gawked at and leered over.

At a quarter past ten, he knocked on her door. He didn't look at her when she opened it. He didn't respond to her comment about being fashionably late.

She cleared her throat and extended the gold necklace. "It won't close. I assume you need to do something?"

He finally looked up at her. He'd washed his hair, and his skin was back to pale white instead of grey. But he was in his Death Eater boots and trousers. They were both in uniform tonight.

Taking the necklace from her extended fingers, he played with the clasp while she turned around and lifted her hair off her shoulders. Once fastened, the gold shrunk to her neck, and she gasped at the feeling of confinement.

She turned around. "Do these have magical properties?" she asked, fingering the edge of the thin gold.

He jerked his gaze from her neck to her eyes, a tinge of pink in his cheeks. "It's a class system, barring certain collars from certain rooms."

Where were they headed?

"I suppose I have an all-access pass, then?" The sharp humor was coming swiftly, covering the bubble of her nerves.

"Of sorts."

He led the way downstairs, and when he turned left toward the front door instead of the fireplaces, she was reminded of when they'd gone to Hogwarts.

She froze. "Will the Dark Lord be there?" she asked as he stepped through the door.

"No. He rarely is." A pause, and then over his shoulder: "Neither is my aunt."

She followed behind him down the path as the tightness in her chest loosened. "And why is that?"

He didn't respond for a moment. When they'd finally gotten to the gates, he said, "The parties are rather specific… for specific tastes. Neither the Dark Lord nor my aunt have a desire for these affairs. Though Death Eaters are generally encouraged to attend."

She nodded, willing her nerves to calm. She extended her arm to him, and he stared down at it before gingerly wrapping his fingers around the tattoo and walking them through the barrier.

He walked them to the top of the hill for Apparition, and as he drew his wand, her anxiety tumbled over. "Will something similar happen tonight?"

His eyes were cold and dead as he looked at her, questioning.

"S-similar to my room. Will you need to—"

"No." It was harsh against the wind. "You will stay close to me, and we will let everyone see you so that we don't have to return for several weeks. That's all."

She swallowed, shivering.

"There will be minor contact," he said, clarifying her question. His eyes were on the sky, and she wondered much minor contact he could stand. As if he'd been the one assaulted.

Then again, they'd both been violated. In different kinds of ways.

She offered him her elbow. He took it in a firm grip, and they slipped away and appeared at the edge of a small town, dark and quiet. The cobblestone streets led up a long hill, and at the top, a looming castle looked down on them, the Dark Mark slithering in the sky above it.

He led them forward toward the gates, and just before following him, she caught sight of an old sign hanging off a dead street lamp.

Edinburgh Castle This Way

Edinburgh Castle loomed over them as they approached on the cobblestones, devoid of the usual tourists or families. Devoid of the Muggle military guards at the gates. Instead they passed cloaked Death Eaters and seedy Dark object dealers begging for Draco Malfoy's gold like paupers.

How far had Voldemort spread his reach? Surely the Muggle governments were now aware of him, if a popular tourist site had been seized. What did the Muggle papers say?

She shoved her questions aside, focusing on the familiar silhouette in the distance. A wind howled across the stone path, and Hermione shivered in her négligée, her ankles twisting in the heels. She looked up at the castle now, and a different howl grated with the wind.

Werewolves.

Their lethal bodies prowled through the turrets over the arched entryway. A jolt of terror shot down her spine. The last time she'd been this close to a werewolf had been in the Great Hall, watching in horror as it hunched over Lavender's body.

Draco grabbed her arm and strode forward. She focused on the pressure of his fingers as they drew closer, her heart pounding in her ears, as if trying to drown out the sounds of their sniffing and panting. Once they reached the end of the path, he placed his fingers directly over the tattoo and gave her a yank forward, over the threshold.

Goosebumps prickled on her flesh. A magical barrier. "Am I locked in now?" she asked, rubbing the skin where he'd gripped her. He paused, turning to look at her with a cruel expression, a flash of warning in his eyes.

He couldn't answer her. Not here.

He jerked his head and continued towards the gate. She followed, her eyes shifting in every direction, trying to take in the eyes and ears that could be on them. A pair of Death Eaters stood inside the gates, more lounging and laughing than guarding.

"Alright there, Malfoy?" one of them called.

"Evening, Relkin. I take it your leg's still healing, if you can't be bothered to stand and greet us?"

A grumble and a distant reply as they continued up the path to a second archway, a tighter entrance with tall walls of stone on one side and a steep grassy hill on the other. The moon shone bright and over them as they pushed forward.

Two more Death Eaters at the second entrance, standing a little straighter than the first two. They nodded to Draco as he walked through. He ignored them and Hermione followed, eyes fixed on the cobblestones. A low whistle once she passed. She glanced up to find an older man she didn't recognize, leering at her from a set of steep stone stairs leading up the hill.

"You bring her to play, Malfoy?"

"She's playing with me tonight." Draco steered her towards the steps, and they started to climb. "I don't share, Morrison," he said, with a wink and a handshake as they passed. Morrison chuckled, looking her over before Draco nudged her to continue ahead of him. As they ascended, her cheeks burned at the sudden realization that he had a full view of her legs and backside. She shoved her embarrassment aside, allowing her mind to wander.

She had questions. Questions about the guards, the number of Death Eaters moving in and out, the rankings…

After mentally reciting a list to ask once they were home again, Hermione finally reached the top of the stairs, turning once to look out over Edinburgh's skyline. It was a clear night, and they were hundreds of feet above sea level.

Dark windows and empty streets as far as the eye could see. Had Edinburgh been massacred? Or evacuated?

A faint sensation of fingers on her lower back, and she shivered as Draco brushed past her. After a moment, she followed, struggling to keep up with his long strides.

She could hear the growing noise of a party as they walked closer to the grey structures jutting into the night sky. He finally turned a corner and led her into a large courtyard, where about fifty men were socializing. She swallowed, trying to conceal her shock as she considered the numbers. It had to be a gathering of Voldemort's elite, but she'd never known him to have such a large inner circle. Were all of these men truly Death Eaters? Or were they simply revelers, delving into their darker impulses now that the Order was gone? She opened her mouth to ask, and realized again that she couldn't.

They moved toward the tall buildings to the left, away from the crowd outside, but his feet turned abruptly, as if he'd just remembered something. She stumbled to keep up with him as he took her elbow and dragged her to the solitary lamp still flickering in this part of the courtyard. Once he was illuminated with ambers and golds, she watched him breathe deep and stare at her with cold, dead eyes.

"I'm showing you how to behave," he murmured. His eyes dipped towards her chest. "Nod your head."

Her heart thundered, and she refrained from looking over to the crowd they were playing for. She nodded at his shoes. "How am I to behave?"

One hand reached up, and she held her breath when he tucked a curl behind her ear, tilting her face up with his hand on her jaw. A different mask had clicked into place. His eyes flickered with heat as he breathed over her, dancing along her clavicles and neck.

"Obedient, but not broken."

She blinked quickly at him, feeling the warmth of his fingers behind her ear, watching his eyes storm, and the Malfoy smirk slowly return over his features.

"Oi! Malfoy!"

The call from across the courtyard startled her. She tried to turn around but Draco's hand on her face held her firmly in place.

He lifted his head and called out, "Evening, Bole," before dropping his hand to her elbow and dragging her to the buildings they were headed for.

She heard a faint smattering of "Is that her?" and "Finally!" behind her shoulder as his pace quickened.

The gap in the buildings led to another large, dimly-lit courtyard. Four blocky buildings bordered the area, a clock tower climbing high from the one to their left. It was eerily quiet in the summer air, but she still felt like hundreds of eyes were on her.

His hand rose to her lower back as he pushed them onwards, and she jumped at the contact before settling into the warmth of his hand. He steered them towards one of the blocky buildings, about three stories tall and as long as the entire courtyard.

She wondered what kind of sordid debauchery awaited her inside the walls. How many of her friends would she find in chains, beaten and broken? How many familiar faces would she find abusing and raping the innocent? The courtyard answered her in silence.

They reached the entrance, the wooden doors heavy and foreboding. A pause, and then Draco pushed open the door for her.

Music, lifting above the stone floors and into the wooden arches overhead A soft jazzy tune she remembered from her Muggle life. A bustling of laughter and clinking glasses.

She tried to peer around the edge of the entryway to see more, but a girl appeared, blocking her view. She held a tray of champagne glasses and wore a short slip that shimmered like the bubbles in the flutes. She wore a silver collar around her thin neck.

The girl looked up at them, eyes landing on Hermione with a flicker, before turning a coquettish smile on Draco.

"Good evening, Master Malfoy."

"Charlotte," he greeted, lifting two champagne glasses off the tray. He silently offered Hermione one, and she stared down at it until he pushed it into her chest.

She clutched the crystal between her fingers as Charlotte stepped aside for them, and Draco guided her into the room.

It was a hall, maybe half the size of Hogwarts' Great Hall. People mingled, glasses sparkled, and conversation bubbled up to the arched ceiling. Her eyes struggled to capture everything. Chandeliers hung over the room, burning low and casting shadows over the suits of armor and coat of arms lining the walls. Her eyes flew to a looming fireplace across the room, its pale stone reaching high towards the vaulted beams. Perhaps an escape route if she could find Floo powder, assuming it wasn't charmed against her tattoo.

The men standing about sipping champagne or swirling tumblers of scotch weren't in Death Eater robes, but still had a stiff uniformity about them, as if they could be called away at any moment. She scanned, recognizing Jugson, Crabbe Sr., Runcorn from the Ministry, and Rabastan and Rodolphus Lestrange. And just after she caught sight of Mulciber, she found Cho Chang looking at her from where she dripped off of his arm like wax.

Hermione's breath caught, and she heard sound in a vacuum as Cho turned away, sipping her champagne as if they didn't know each other. Cho smiled sweetly at something Mulciber said, leaning in and looking up at him through her lashes, her long hair swaying down her back. She didn't flinch as his hand slipped down to rub her backside.

A chill pressed over her. "Dolohov?" she whispered.

A quick shake of Draco's head, and Hermione felt the knot in her stomach unwind.

Her eyes flitted through the rest of the room, desperate to discover more of them. Sally Fawcett in a corner with a much older man, her neck tilted to the side as he brushed his lips across her skin. Hannah Abbott in a slip even shorter than the others', her limbs skinny and pale, holding a full glass of champagne with haunted eyes. Alicia Spinnet with her arms slung around the shoulders of an unfamiliar man, swaying to the music with a listless smile on her face. Some stood tall and proud at their captors' sides like a treasured concubine, whereas others shrunk into themselves, like used and beaten toys their owners would one day tire of.

Draco sipped his champagne as they moved forward, his arm slithering around her back, his hand landing on her opposite hip. She leaned into the embrace for the benefit of any watchful eyes, a shiver passing over her skin.

"Malfoy!" Blaise Zabini swaggered toward them with Theo Nott on his heels. Blaise smirked and slid his eyes over her. "Finally let her out of her cage, I see."

"Of course," Draco's voice lilted. He threw back the rest of his champagne glass. "She's been ill. Disgusting to look at, really."

Blaise's lips twitched, but he said nothing. Theo snorted and sipped his champagne.

Hermione looked past them, trying to catch a glimpse of Cho again, then froze — aware of a drop in the room's volume. They had caught the attention of half the hall. Eyes turned to her, Lots and Death Eaters alike. They murmured in low voices to each other, whispering and nodding toward them, and she felt her cheeks burn as unfamiliar gazes traced her knees, her chest, Draco's hand on her hip. A slight squeeze, and she looked up, refocusing on what Zabini and Theo were saying, as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

"We're already set up in the suite," Theo said, a casual insolence in his tone. "You're almost late."

"But I'm not, am I?" Draco snapped with a quick smile. Hermione felt her skin prickle at the mention of a suite. "Collect your girls. I'll meet you there."

"For someone so concerned with timeliness—"

"Do fuck off, Theo," Draco cooed. He grinned at Zabini as Theo glared and steered Hermione between them, making sure to knock Theo's shoulder on his way.

Hermione felt her legs turn to jelly as they swept through the crowd of people staring at them.

"Suite?" she whispered.

He waited until they passed a pair of older men sipping scotch before answering, "Do not speak to me in this room."

She flinched when he said it, like a slap against her skin. But her logic whispered that she should hear something else. You may speak in a different room.

Perhaps the "suite."

Her control slipped, mind running wild with thoughts of a hotel suite with a luxurious bed where she and other girls would be forced to do unspeakable things—

She blinked, zeroing on in her new focus. Cho.

The dark-haired girl didn't look in her direction as they approached. Draco took the lead, nodding at unfamiliar faces while Hermione's eyes kept darting back to Cho as covertly as possible. Her chest stung with the desire to call to her. To rip out of Draco's hold and run to embrace her. Instead she dug her nails into her palms, forcing a look of neutral disinterest at everything she saw.

Perhaps Cho felt the same. Maybe that's why she simply tilted her face away from Mulciber as they passed, a deep swallow of her champagne, and a flicker of her fingers against the glass.

Draco led her towards the other side of the room near the fireplace, and she scanned briefly for a vase of Floo powder before focusing on who they were headed towards.

Avery.

Hermione felt her heart in her throat. This man owned Ginny. She was probably stashed away at his estate at this very moment.

"Aron," Draco greeted. Avery turned from where he was laughing with a dark-haired woman. He held a cigar between his teeth, and Hermione coughed lightly as they passed through a cloud. "My father sends his regrets that he missed your celebration last weekend."

"Draco." Avery took Draco's offered hand in a firm shake, his gaze quickly skimming over Hermione. "Of course, not a problem. I know he's off… where is it again?" He leaned closer, eyes twinkling as he inhaled a deep puff of smoke.

Hermione felt the hand on her back stiffen. "Unfortunately, I couldn't say. The mission was between my father and the Dark Lord."

Avery nodded, his smirk fading a bit around his cigar. He gestured to the woman to his right, and Hermione noticed she was not wearing a collar. Her dress was long and elegant, sweeping to the floor, her hair twisted in a low chignon unlike all the collared girls.

"Madame Minister, may I present Draco Malfoy."

Hermione eyed her carefully as Draco kissed her knuckles with a bow. This woman was the Greek Minister for Magic — Eleni Cirillo. Her chest tightened in anticipation. Minister Cirillo was a pureblood, the prominence of her family lineage dating back for centuries in Greece and Italy. Her policies and offhand comments had always carried a tinge of blood supremacy — something she'd vehemently denied to the press in the years before Voldemort's rise.

"Malfoy?" she asked, arching one perfect brow. "Lucius's son?"

"Yes, Madame Minister. Please accept my apologies on his behalf that he couldn't escort you himself."

Avery stared at Draco, eyes narrowing as he took a deep sip of his glass.

"Please send my regards to your father. It's been ages." Draco politely inclined his head while the Minister turned her eyes on Hermione. With a sultry dip of her gaze to her chest, the Minister said, "And who do we have here?"

"Hermione Granger," Draco said, and she could hear the smirk in his voice. "My Lot."

"Indeed?" Minister Cirillo's eyes glittered. "The Golden Girl I've heard so much about." She stepped forward and reached a delicate hand to twirl one of Hermione's curls between her fingertips. "Well, isn't she stunning." She dropped her curl, brushing the backs of her fingers against Hermione's breast. Hermione gasped.

"Young Malfoy has been rather ungenerous with her," Avery said, his smirk returning as he sucked on his cigar. "This is the Mudblood's first visit to Edinburgh."

She felt Draco's fingers tighten against her hip. The Greek Minister tsked.

"That won't do, Malfoy. Who would deprive such a pretty plaything from our festivities?" She gestured widely at the chandeliers and the champagne, the laughter and the lazy smiles. "I would love to escort her this evening, if you'll allow it."

"An excellent idea," Avery leered. "What say you, Draco?"

Hermione's eyes snapped to Minister Cirillo, certain she'd be no safer on the Minister's arm than on any other Death Eater's.

"My apologies, Minister, but I'm under strict orders not to let her leave my side," Draco quickly replied. "Not after what happened with Avery's Lot last month."

Avery's eyes turned icy as Hermione's heart thumped wildly.

Ginny didn't play nicely with others. Something had happened.

Minister Cirillo gave a trilling laugh. "Ah, yes. I heard I missed quite the drama! I confess I'm disappointed I missed the chance to meet the Dark Lord's favored pet. Perhaps in the future, Aron."

"Perhaps," Avery gritted out.

The Minister turned to Draco. "Very well, then. But I do hope you reconsider at some point, Draco. The girl deserves a bit of the fun as well." She paused, and Hermione could feel her appraising eyes on her figure even as she stared at the floor. "Mulciber leant me his girl last weekend, and I can assure you that she had a splendid time. Another beauty, is she not?"

Hermione's breath caught and she glanced up, scanning the room for Cho again. She found her running her fingers through the long locks of another girl, pressing her hips into her side as Mulciber eyed them lecherously. Hermione swallowed, quickly looking away.

Her attention came back to Minister Cirillo as she stepped closer to Draco to whisper against his cheek, her clear blue eyes straying down Hermione's chest again. "No need to keep the girl so tightly wound."

Hermione blinked and stared at the ground again, processing. Was she doing so poorly already? Her chest flushed, suddenly angry at Draco for not giving her the proper information to play this game.

"A fair point, Madame Minister," said Draco, and she knew a wink had accompanied the lazy drawl.

"She'll be around more often then?" Avery asked.

"When she's a good girl, she'll get to come out and play," Draco said smoothly.

His hand slithered across her back, dragging along the silk until his warm palm ran up her ribs. Her breath caught as his fingers slid up her jaw, and she turned her eyes to him when he tilted her head back, just as he had outside under the lamp.

"She's not always good, though," he said with a smile.

She heard chuckling, a shiver around the room. More eyes were on them. Draco's gaze dipped to her mouth, and his thumb dragged across her bottom lip, opening her lips.

A heartbeat when she thought he'd kiss her.

"When I'm back next month, I hope to see her again," Minister Cirillo said.

Draco's hand dropped away. He excused them, shook Minister Cirillo's hand again, and guided Hermione back to the front of the room. They passed a young girl, no more than fifteen, standing in the corner with Jugson while he socialized. The girl's olive skin was drained and pale, and her eyes were shining with tears when she looked at them. Hermione felt a fire burn in her belly as Draco pushed her along, fingers itching to hex off the greedy hand that stroked the girl's waist.

Apprehension swallowed her anger when they turned the corner, meeting a dark corridor. Draco took her elbow and guided them through a carved door, opening to the clock tower building. Several people in corners speaking lowly with each other paid them no mind, and he turned toward a winding stone staircase, not releasing her elbow. As if she would fly away with the breeze if he did.

A boy she recognized from the year below them stood at the top of the stairs. Harper, she thought his name was. He stood tall once Draco's head bobbed up the steps. He greeted Draco and reached for the door.

"Harper," Draco chastised, in the same tone he used for Crabbe and Goyle when they were being terribly dense.

Harper jumped, as if his hand had been burned by the doorknob. "Right. Sorry. I just recognized you—"

"That doesn't matter," Draco sneered. He extended his left hand, and Harper's wand tapped the emerald ring he wore on his thumb. A class ring of sorts — something she'd only seen on the Slytherin boys. The ring that had cut her lip the night Draco slapped her.

The end of Harper's wand turned green. With a nod to Draco, Harper turned to her next, and his eyes slid to her gold collar. He pressed the tip of his wand to the metal, and eyed the warm golden light now emanating from it. Another nod before he turned the doorknob for them.

Uproarious laughter met her ears. Thick, deep voices — some familiar from her childhood — ricocheted through a small room decorated in lavish patterned wallpaper and dark woods. When the door opened, nine heads turned to them from around a long table, their conversations trailing off.

She blinked, struggling to register every person in the room. The boy at the end of the table stood, his chair knocking back, and smiled at her with greedy black eyes.

Marcus Flint.

"Miss Granger," he crooned. "We're delighted."

In a disturbing shadow of chivalry, every person at the table came to their feet, all eyes still locked on her. She recognized Zabini, Nott, and Goyle. Adrian Pucey stood to Flint's right, and Montague on his left. Three boys in the center of the table she struggled to place. And lining the walls were nine girls in collars.

One of them looked up to meet her eyes before blanching and dropping her head down. Susan Bones. The rest of them kept their eyes down. Penelope Clearwater stood behind Marcus Flint's chair. Mortensen from the Ministry holding cells stood behind Pucey, and she thought she recognized one or two more classmates, but the rest were unfamiliar to her.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen," Draco said, stepping forward to shake Flint's hand. "The Greek Minister took an interest in my Lot."

Hermione waited in the doorway, pausing for instruction as Draco greeted his friends.

A girl with strawberry-blonde hair looked up at her from across the room, and the calculated interest in her eyes made Hermione look away, ashamed. She could only imagine what they must think of her. The privileged Lot.

She turned her gaze back to the table and found several bottles of wine decanting, some already half-drunk. A pig roast lay in the center of the table, an apple in its mouth, looking like he had been caught on the wrong side of all this as well.

Gregory Goyle hadn't taken his eyes off her legs since the moment she walked in, so she felt the pit in her stomach loosen when Draco guided her to the other side of the table to stand behind the only empty chair — the head, across from Flint.

Draco took his seat, the conversation easy and boisterous again. The moment he sat, the nine girls around the table stepped forward, reaching for the wine bottles. She watched as they poured the russet wine into the glass of the boy in front of them. Several eyes turned on her as she stared at them, doing nothing. Were they expected to play their parts as menial servants as the boys had their fun? Even though all ten of them had full use of their wands?

"Come on, Granger," Draco taunted. "Do keep up."

Stepping forward on trembling legs, she reached around Draco's shoulder for the decanter of wine next to his glass, filling it. The girls had stepped back, blending in with the wallpaper, and Hermione quickly followed their lead. She let out a shaky breath as she leaned into the windowsill behind her, letting the cool glass press against her shoulder blades.

Draco lifted his glass. "To the Dark Lord's power. May he reign forevermore."

The boys chorused his toast, and Hermione saw Penelope Clearwater's lip tremble out of the corner of her eye.

The clamor of ten boys chatting and drinking washed over her, and she tried catching onto snippets of conversation where she could.

"Cass, what did your father say about—"

"—hear about the incident at the Bastille?"

"What did I tell you! It was a two laceflies, not three—"

"Think they'll still play this year? I missed the last World Cup."

Hermione reeled, her dizzy mind trying to narrow down what she should be focusing on. Which of the conversations? She couldn't follow all of them at once. Or was it what existed in the silence, in the glances and bullying? She glanced at the other Lots for cues, but they were staring fixedly at their heels. Except for the strawberry-blonde girl, who looked more attentive than the rest. What was she staring at?

And through it all, Marcus Flint kept grinning at her.

"Malfoy," Flint called across the table, and the room dipped into silence. "Dragon Pox?" He gestured to her with his soup spoon.

"Not Dragon Pox after all. But she was disgusting. Pocks and puss." Draco made a face, and when he turned over his shoulder, he glared at her. "You tired? Can't stand straight?"

Every eye turned on her. And she realized that every girl was standing tall, waiting to be called upon. She pushed up from the windowsill.

"No, sir."

A chorus of chuckling trembled the room. And she remembered what he'd said.

Obedient, but not broken.

"I'm just not used to wearing heels. Sir."

The room held its breath. And then Draco's eyes flashed at her while the table erupted with laughter.

"Have quite a handful with her, don't you?"

"Pour her a glass of wine!"

"You gonna tell the Headmaster on us, Granger?"

"Tell you what, Granger," Blaise Zabini said with a smirk. "You can have a break from your footwear if Draco allows you to sit on my lap for the rest of the night."

The boys howled, and Blaise winked at her. Draco cleared his throat, scowling. "She will do no such thing." The laughter petered out, though the corners of Blaise's mouth twitched behind his glass.

"Merlin's sack, Malfoy," Theo Nott murmured. "Why bring her?" He leered at her and chuckled. "Oh, how the mighty have fallen. I was so looking forward to Granger being Head Girl last year." His innuendo landed on her skin like ice water. "We should give her a chance to earn her title."

Montague snorted into his wine, and Flint's fingers danced along the rim of his glass.

"A shame indeed, Theo," Draco said smoothly, "seeing as I've heard rumors that you were a shoe-in for Head Boy. You could have shared the 'head' duties quite nicely."

Blaise spit up his wine, laughing into his sleeve. Flint and Pucey giggled drunkenly. Theo glared at Draco. "What the fuck is that supposed—"

Draco stood suddenly, cutting him off. "Pucey? Will you do the honors?" He nodded to the pig in the middle of the table. "I'm starving."

Adrian Pucey stood with a smirk, and produced a carving knife. Hermione listened to the boys chat while each girl approached Pucey to take a plate to their escort. Susan Bones retrieved Goyle two servings, and he thanked her with a tweak to her nipple through her thin dress. Hermione moved around the table to Pucey's side when it was her turn; she could feel him watching her as the conversation continued, eyes raking her body.

"She looks pampered, Malfoy," Pucey said, twirling his knife, Hermione's heartbeat quickened as he began spinning the blade on his thumb. "Do you have any fun with her at all?"

They laughed. And she glanced to Mortensen, who stood behind Pucey's chair peeling an orange for him with her eyes glued to his knife as it spun.

"You know how much I paid for her, Adrian," Draco drawled. "Of course I bathe her in milk and lavender every night."

Flint laughed. But Pucey's eyes were darting across her skin. Hermione drew in a slow breath, trying to think about how she should react. It was true that she was at a healthy weight. She had limited sunlight these days; all freckles from her year on the run had vanished—

Quick as lightning, a glint of metal, and then Pucey was a breath away, his knife between her skin and the strap of her slip. He tugged on it.

"She's a Mudblood, Draco. She only needs to lay on her back." His crisp white teeth flashed at her, his breath hot on her face. "Besides, I always heal them afterwards."

She froze in horror as the knife cut through the strap, her heart fluttering wildly and her eyes bulging to the only exit — her dress slipping down her chest—

The knife zoomed away from her skin, spinning through the air to pierce the wallpaper as Pucey jumped backward. Her strap repaired itself, and she turned to see Draco pocketing his wand, hot rage simmering beneath his cool facade.

"I'm not sure how many more times I need to say it," he whispered, and the room was barely breathing. "That Mudblood is mine. Her mouth is mine, her cunt is mine, her skin is mine." His teeth bit through the words, and he met eyes with every person at the table before saying, "You will not touch her, under any circumstances. I purchased her. I do what I please with her."

Her skin tingled where she could still feel the ghost of Pucey's knife. Her breath was shallow as she watched Draco glare at them, still a statue until he was satisfied that he was heard.

"Now bring me a bloody plate. I said I was hungry."

A grumbled sigh, and then Pucey was piling a plate with food and handing it to her. She moved back to the head of the table on jerky legs, and Draco took his seat as she set his plate before him. Before she could move back to the windowsill, his arm wrapped around her waist and dragged her down to his lap. She struggled not to squeak as she landed oddly across his thighs. His hand pressed on her stomach to keep her close, and he picked up with fork with a sophisticated twirl.

"Now, what were you saying about the Chudley Cannons, Warrington?"

The air was still dense in the room as the boys around the table drifted back into friendly conversation, but Hermione wished they could prop open a window. The heat from Draco's chest and thighs, the feeling of his ribs rumbling into her own whenever he spoke, the puff of hot air across her neck whenever he laughed were inescapable. She tried to concentrate, tried to listen in for clues about the world outside, but she was distracted by Draco's hand on her stomach, stiff and warm. She tried to shift away from him, to make herself more comfortable, but his hand jumped to her ribs, holding her, keeping her from twisting about.

The other girls stood by the walls, stepping forward to fill the empty glasses. Ten minutes after conversation resumed, Penelope Clearwater stepped forward and reached for Flint's wine. He caught her wrist smoothly and pulled her down to his lap as well, and she stumbled as Flint pulled her blonde curls to the side.

Hermione felt guilt boiling in her gut when Goyle tugged down Susan Bones to his lap, wondering if she and Draco had started this trend, or if the girls normally fell into their laps after dinner. Theo Nott was the first one to offer his girl a bite of his cheese. And when she smiled at him in thanks, Hermione wondered if this was simply the second part of the evening. When the slaves ate the scraps from their masters' tables.

Two of the girls began clearing plates, and Hermione watched the table settings disappear entirely once they were taken to the credenza. Elf magic here as well, but she wondered at the distinctly Muggle task of clearing dishes, something no wizarding family did without magic. When one of them reached for Montague's plate, he stabbed at them sharply with the tines of his fork, and then made a show about eating one last bite. The intricacies of the power dynamics stunned her.

From the boisterous conversations in the middle of the table, she started to place the other three boys. Cassius Warrington, Terrence Higgs, and Miles Bletchley. The entire Slytherin Quidditch team, spanning over several years. The rings made more sense to her. Higgs seemed the least entertained with the evening, barely enjoying the blonde that had dropped into his lap.

The girls started reaching for their own cheese and fruit as the boys got drunker, several of them smiling and pretending to enjoy themselves. She caught snippets of conversation, something about Pucey's aunt in Liverpool, Bletchley's second home in Germany, Nott's injury last month. But nothing stood out as particularly important.

Draco kept to one glass of wine, but she watched the other girls drain the decanters into their masters' glasses. Hermione kept her hands folded in her lap and her eyes down, finding that when she looked around the table she would always catch the eyes of one of them.

"Draco," Flint called across the table, his cheeks flushed with the wine and his fingers playing with Penelope's curls. "Since we won't be getting a taste, tell us a bit about Granger. Is she just as fiery in the bedroom?"

A guffaw or two, then the table went silent. And Draco's fingertips twitched against her ribs. She felt the press of them as her breath exhaled slowly. She heard his throat click as he swallowed.

"What do you want to know?" He lifted his wine glass, draining it. Hermione felt her heartbeat against the champagne glass she held tightly between fingers.

"She just as swotty in bed?"

Laughter clattered against the spoons, and she lifted her head to find every eye on her, hungry with lust or cruel amusement. She blinked down again, her cheeks burning.

"In the beginning," Draco said finally, a low hum through her back. "Now she knows how to relax — to avoid punishment."

She felt a shiver at her shoulder blades, spreading outwards and sinking into her skin.

"What's her cunt like?" Montague asked, biting back a smirk.

"Delicious."

There was stillness, and Hermione thought perhaps Draco had said the wrong thing. Because it wouldn't be necessary to… it wouldn't be something that he'd… that they'd—

"You make her come?" Goyle asked, voicing her concerns with a grimace.

"Usually more than once," he said, as if he'd been asked about the weather. "Not in the beginning of course. And if she's misbehaving I don't bother."

Hermione chanced a glance up and caught the eyes of another Lot before the girl looked down shamefully, as if Hermione had just discovered her own secret. Perhaps it wasn't as unheard of to make their partners orgasm.

"With the potion or without?" one of them asked dubiously.

Her eyes flicked up to Penelope. The potion — the one Marcus Flint had administered to Pansy and Penelope. Before tonight, Hermione only had an idea of what it did. Now she understood.

"Without," Draco sneered. "It's so much more satisfying — no offense, Marcus — to have them moaning and begging for it all by themselves, don't you think?" His hand lifted off her ribs and reached for a curl, twisting it lightly. "And the sounds she makes," he hummed. She could feel his breath on her cheek. Her ribs refused to expand, holding to hear what he had to say. "When she's close, it's just like she's back in class, anxious to get an answer right. Can't stop moving, can't shut her mouth." She stared down at the tablecloth, struggling to breathe. Her stomach was tight as his fingers threaded in the hair behind her ear, tilting her face to him. "I'd rather slide into her when she's wet, and hating herself for it."

She kept her eyes on his collar, unable to meet his eyes. It's just a game, she told herself. He doesn't mean any of it. The wine brought a flush to his neck, the pink splotches attached to his throat as he swallowed.

He'd played his role well. It wasn't until Zabini spoke that she realized the boys were deathly quiet.

"I have to say, I'm the same," he said, an air of levity in his tone, as if he was politely changing the subject from something particularly nasty. "Never been one to use sex for punishment, myself. But"—he nodded to Flint—"I do appreciate that potion some days." Zabini raised his glass. "To Marcus' ingenuity."

They toasted, and Flint grinned. "I'll have a fresh batch next week." He turned a calculated smirk on Draco and said, "I'd be honored if Miss Granger would partake. On the house, of course."

A tense pause. Eyes on her, eyes flickering between Draco and Flint. Draco tilted his head, and she could feel the breath he drew before replying, "You're too kind."

Marcus Flint winked at him, and drained the rest of his wine glass.

"I find that once they've had the potion, they're more amenable the next time," one of them said.

Another agreed.

And she listened to them trade stories about the girls in their laps or girls in the past, as if they were all back in the Slytherin Quidditch changing rooms. The laughter started again. Montague told a particularly nasty story about a girl he'd been with at Hogwarts and he bounced the girl on his lap in a crude imitation of it, jostling her until she spilled her champagne glass.

Hermione tried to focus on the girls, the exits, the sharp cutlery — anything but the horrendous display of masculinity and sexuality. Or the way Draco's hand stayed in her curls, threading and twisting softly. Warrington had begun to run his hands over his girl's hips and stomach, and Hermione saw a sliver of her knickers as her dress slid up. One of the girls passing out fruit and sweets smiled demurely every time a wandering hand squeezed her backside or drifted up the side of her thigh. Marcus Flint's lips traveled along Penelope's neck in between conversation with his friends, and Susan Bones looked as if she might be sick as Goyle turned her to straddle him in the chair.

Hermione felt acid in her throat, burning away at her lungs. If this is what happened in public, she couldn't even imagine what the private affairs consisted of. Not even the slow rub of Draco's thumb behind her ear could distract her from the tightness in her chest.

The boys were talking over each other, louder and louder. She felt Draco laugh when Nott made a joke, bellow when Pucey dared Flint to chug the rest of his bottle, chuckle when Blaise went to grab more wine. As her eyes followed Blaise out, they landed on Goyle pushing on Susan's shoulders, urging her down to her knees.

She gasped, choking on the air. No one batted an eye. One more glance showed Susan's shaking fingers unbuckling Goyle's trousers, her face pale but resigned.

She couldn't breathe. This was their fate now — reduced to whores at a pure-blood party, serving their food and wine and smiling while they were groped and raped. Her eyes blurred as tears sprung. She understood now why Ginny couldn't "play nice," despite what it must have cost her.

Draco's hand moved to the back of her neck, sensing the tension in her body, the change in her breathing. Disgust and guilt dripped into her veins like poison, sickened to think that she felt safe with him while the rest of them were forced into this.

She felt him freeze the moment he discovered what had disturbed her.

"Really, Goyle?" Draco hissed, cutting through the noise and laughter. Hermione jumped with the sound of it against her ear. "Not at the dinner table."

Several of the boys chuckled as realization dawned, leaning over the table to watch.

"Wanted dessert," Goyle muttered, head tilting and eyes rolling back, his wine glass clutched in his hand.

"You know that's for the other room, Greg," Flint said disapprovingly.

His free hand reached down, grabbing Susan's hair. "Almost done."

Hermione bit back the bile rising, shaking her skin and twisting around her like ink. She still couldn't breathe. Even with Draco's hand on her neck, telling her to be calm, she couldn't drown out the sounds as Susan gurgled and choked.

"Wonder if Bones gives it as good as Weasley did."

Her eye twitched. Her shallow breath felt like ice in her chest.

"Now there was a pair of lips I'd like around my cock," Montague continued. "Wish Avery would have given me a turn when he was done with her—"

Goyle's glass shattered — a spray of crystal shards across the dinner table. Fruit and cheese exploding outwards and bouncing away. The boys scattered to their feet, and a pressure released in her chest as Draco spun her body away, his wand already in his hand.

Looking down at his hand in amazement, Goyle flexed his fingers, glass and blood in his palm. Susan crawled out from under the table.

Hermione breathed deep.

Her magic.

Draco looked down at her in shock, his chin bumping her nose. He sat her upright, his arms releasing their grip.

Marcus Flint was the first to start laughing. "Merlin, Goyle! Don't get too excited!"

Pucey and Montague joined, jostling Goyle — ribbing him for squeezing his glass so hard that it shattered.

"You'd think he'd never been sucked off before!"

"Serves you right for starting the fun too soon."

Goyle smiled as he adjusted his trousers, assuming responsibility. Blaise reentered with arms full of bottles, and laughed as he took in the scene. Flint, with a smarmy grin, turned to the girls around the table and said, "Ladies. On all fours."

Draco's fingers twitched on her ribs, and he glared at Flint.

"I want every piece of glass picked up, every bit of food gathered, and every boot kissed," Flint said, grinning at Draco. Several of the girls had already dropped to their knees, gathering glass.

Hermione tried to calm her racing heart. Losing control like she just had was too dangerous. She pushed away all thoughts of Ginny and tucked them into a corner of her bookshelf. Standing to start cleaning up, she was stopped by Draco's hand on her wrist.

"Think your Mudblood is too good to do our cleaning, Draco?"

"I do, actually. I don't usually let 65,000 Galleons drop on the floor."

Hermione looked back and forth between them. Every other girl had gone to their knees, beginning to clean while the boys watched and started drinking again.

"She's still just a Mudblood," Flint said slowly, a smirk parting his lips to reveal his perfect, new teeth. "Right, Draco?"

There was a challenge in his voice, and Draco stared him down. She watched Blaise pop a bottle of champagne with ease, his eyes on Flint and Draco with an air of indifference.

Draco released her wrist. She quickly fell to her knees, relishing the first time in hours that there weren't thousands of eyes on her. She crawled forward, feeling glass digging into her palms and knees, and savored the pain of it. She had to be strong — for Ginny, for Ron. For Harry. For all of the slaves who were suffering horrors and fighting battles Hermione could only imagine.

But while plucking up pieces of cheese and bread and siphoning out the glass, the laughter started again, threatening her resolve. Tears filled her eyes once more, and she sniffed, barely holding them at bay.

Her hand met another under the table. She looked up and found nine girls staring at her with weary eyes, holding hands with each other. Her breath rattled as the strawberry-blonde grabbed her other hand. Barely a heartbeat passed before the nine of them continued moving, gathering food and pulling glass out of their knees.

These girls had survived the past two months and would continue to survive. She could survive one night and a fraction of the horror. Putting a stopper on the overflowing bottle of her emotions, she came to her feet and stood next to Draco's chair. She focused on a bookshelf, and imagined the pages filling with the images of this evening until they snapped shut and slid into forgotten dusty shelf.

It wasn't long before Flint stood and said, "Shall we move to the Lounge, gentlemen?"

Pucey and Montague quickly rose from their chairs, taking their girls by the waist. Goyle was jostled from where he was falling asleep against Susan's shoulder.

Hermione remembered what Flint said earlier. That's for the other room. What Goyle did to Susan was acceptable in the next room.

Surely Draco wouldn't take her there. The other room was clearly intended for much more than "minor contact."

Her heart started to pound again, and she breathed in, searching for a lake with still waters.

One by one, the boys gradually led their girls from the room. Draco hung back, taking his time with draining his second glass of wine. Relief began seeping into Hermione's veins. He was stalling so they could make an easy escape. She stood silently by his side, eyes fixed on the floor as Zabini murmured to his girl on their way past.

"Draco." Hermione looked up to find Flint stopped in the doorway with Penelope, Pucey and Mortensen behind them. "You're coming, of course?"

Hermione's breath hitched. Draco passed a hand through his hair and said, "I'm afraid not. I have an important call with my father this evening." His hand drifted to the small of her back, ready to guide her out.

"I knew he wouldn't," Pucey slurred in Flint's ear.

"Come now, Draco!" Flint gestured dramatically. "I've already won ten Galleons from Montague. He bet you'd never bring her to dinner." He smiled and pointed his thumb to Pucey. "This one says we couldn't get her into the Lounge."

The way they grinned at her, the way "the Lounge" rolled off Flint's tongue — it made Hermione's stomach churn. Draco forced a smile and fiddled with the ring on his thumb.

"Perhaps another time."

Flint sauntered towards them. "What time is your Floo call?" His tone was deceptively casual.

A quick pause, and Hermione wondered if he was trying to figure out the time. "Half-past twelve. So we—"

"Plenty of time!" Flint clapped Draco on the shoulder, as if the deed was done. "Just a little tour." His eyes raked over Hermione's chest and shoulders. "I want to see what the Golden Girl thinks of our little club."

His hand was tight on her back, sending tension up her spine. "I suppose we have twenty minutes."

"Twenty minutes is plenty of time for me," Pucey said with a wink. A laugh burst from his chest as he dragged Mortensen out the door. A gentle push on her lower back, and she was propelled forward.

Hermione memorized the path they took back down the stairs, trying to quell the growing panic in her ribs. Harper followed after her and Draco as they fell into step with Flint and Penelope, his hand on her backside as he chatted with Draco about his recent trip to Brazil. They retraced their steps back through the hall past several people still mingling in corners, having hushed conversations over sloshing drinks.

Pushing through a door on the other side, Hermione felt the low thrumming of a bass drum, the music rhythmic and sultry. She closed her eyes as they waited, summoning what was left of her control. Think of a lake with still waters.

The curtains parted, revealing the girl from the beginning of the night — Charlotte — with a tray of champagne and scotch.

"Gentlemen," she greeted with a wide smile. Her lips were still violently red, her hair still falling in perfect waves. Probably glamoured to stay that way.

Flint plucked a scotch from her tray. "Charlotte, dear," he cooed. "You look ravishing. When are you finally going to come home with me?" He pouted and stroked her arm.

"Flattery will get you everywhere, Marcus." Charlotte winked at him and turned to offer the tray to Draco. "And you know the Carrows wouldn't allow it."

Hermione stared at her, filing that information away as Draco pressed another glass of champagne into her hands. The Carrows were involved here. And in charge of some of the girls. Her eyes fell on Charlotte's silver collar as the pretty girl batted her lashes at Draco, then Blaise, as she glided down the line with her tray.

The music swelled when they finally passed through the curtains, entering a large room with deep blue walls and dark woods. Dozens of couches and armchairs facing each other in intimate seating areas, stretching in every direction. Low candlelight and thick clouds of smoke overhead. Hermione's eyes widened, darting around the room.

Men on couches with girls in their laps. Silver-collared girls walking around with crystal platters of cocktails and hors d'oeuvres, heels higher and slips shorter than hers. A door flung open to their left and Hermione jumped as a man stumbled out, buckling his trousers. Staring into the small room, she could see a girl standing next to an armchair, straightening her dress with a practiced smile before Draco pushed her onwards.

She swallowed the acid in her throat, eyes struggling to take in every corner. A gambling table to the right with several men gathered, a few girls on their arms cheering them on. Nott Sr. at the head, tossing dice with a leggy blonde at his elbow. Hermione jerked her head in the opposite direction, afraid to catch his eye.

On one couch she thought she saw a man sleeping peacefully, but then realized his head was thrown back in bliss, a girl on the ground between his legs with her mouth on him. She quickly averted her gaze, throat burning again, but it was like she'd opened Pandora's box. No matter where her eyes darted, she found others in similar positions — out in the open like that.

A blonde girl in only knickers and a bra passed in front of them, leading an older man towards a wall of doors on the left. He was already unbuttoning as he followed her into a small booth.

It was like a brothel with elements of a Muggle strip club. Transactions were either out in the open or hidden away in private stalls; it seemed to depend on the man's preference. Hermione saw a girl bouncing on top of a young man in a way that was clearly penetrative. Her cheeks burned as they passed the couple, acutely aware of Draco's presence next to her, the girl's pants and breathy moans echoing in her ears.

Flint led them deeper into the room, and Draco's hand on her back pressed her close to his side. She knew he'd done his best to avoid bringing her here, to "The Lounge." They had barely been able to look at each other for the past few weeks — ending up here tonight was probably the last thing he wanted. There was no easy way to manage the situation. They'd simply have to survive it.

They turned a corner through a large archway and into another room, the left half obscured by private booths. Several more doors on the farthest wall; the other side filled with plush velvet couches and chairs. A roaring fireplace on the right wall, sending ambers across the room, and a blue sphere of light overhead, casting shadows on familiar faces. Two girls in silver collars danced on a cleared platform near the center of the seating area, similar to a stage at a club, while men lounged and chatted in chairs facing them.

Her lungs filled with air, steadying her. Apart from the dancing, there was nothing she hadn't seen in the other room.

She found Charlotte moving through the crowd with a tray of hors d'oeuvres and fruit, another girl following her with drinks. The men's hands would pass over their backsides and up their thighs as they served, and Charlotte sent each a wink and a smile.

The olive-skinned teenager was being dragged by the arm into a private booth as they passed, her eyes red and her cheeks streaming with tears. Hermione blinked, looking away. Somewhere in her mind's eye, there was a lake. A clear lake, the water still and unmoving—

The party halted, shattering her concentration. Marcus plopped onto a couch facing Theo and his date, and dragged Penelope down to his side. Penelope looked like she'd finally arrived at the moment she'd been dreading all night as Marcus slung his arm around her shoulders and played with her curls.

Draco started to direct her towards a different set of couches, but Flint grabbed the arm of a large chair and dragged it closer, gesturing for Draco to sit. Draco smiled thinly and folded himself into the cushions, pushing Hermione to sit on the arm of the chair instead of his lap. She wasn't sure it was any better — from this perch, she had a vantage point of the entire room.

"Miss Granger," Flint lilted over the thrumming music. "How do you like The Lounge? Is it everything you dreamed of and more?" He smirked into his glass, his eyes locked on her.

Hermione tore her eyes away and stared at her lap, pressing her lips closed. Afraid of opening her mouth, like the anger and bile would come tumbling out of her in waves if she did.

"I'd say they really should be thanking us," Warrington called to Flint from the next couch over, his Lot in his lap, her lips on his neck.

"Thanking you?" The scornful reply left her throat before she could catch herself. Draco went very still next to her. Her heartbeat fluttered amidst her growing sense of panic.

Warrington leveled his gaze on her. "That's right, Mudblood. Thanking us for giving you such a fine hall. For inviting you to dinner and pouring you champagne."

She looked down in a show of obedience, heart thumping madly.

"You Muggles are all the same," Pucey drawled. "It's in your true nature. You don't have to deny it any longer, Granger." He leered at her, and she felt her skin crawl. "Look how much they all enjoy it!" He turned and gestured to the slaves — the dancing two giggled, another moaned as she ground her hips on a man in a chair. And on another couch, Cho Chang kissed another girl slowly as Mulciber watched, rubbing himself through his trousers.

"Come on, Granger," Flint crooned. "Don't be such a spoilsport." His fingers started unbuckling his belt, and Penelope set down her champagne glass, crawling to the floor between his knees with a blank expression. "Let Draco know just how much you appreciate him."

Hermione jerked her eyes away, her breath tight in her chest as she found Warrington's girl turning to straddle his lap. Her stomach squeezed, and vomit pumped into her throat. She swallowed it down and stared at a wall.

Draco dropped a hand on her knee — a quiet warning not to move. "I prefer my appreciation in private. Besides, I'd hate to distract your birds with the size of my cock."

She listened to Flint laugh, his breath thin with excitement from the things Penelope was doing to him.

She watched Charlotte offer fruit to the boys that weren't currently forcing oral sex on their slaves.

She smelled the cigar smoke and heard the sound of laughter and clinking glasses and gasping and moaning.

Her true nature, he'd said. As a Muggle.

Draco whispered to her that they would leave shortly, and she blinked slowly at the carpets, eyes glued to the knees of a brunette she hardly knew as the girl sat before a pure-blood boy who believed she should thank him for the opportunity.

A pair of champagne heels attached to tan legs crossed into her view. Charlotte with the tray. She offered to fetch Draco a drink, and he declined, saying they were leaving soon.

Hermione barely heard them, slightly swaying on her perch. An overwhelming exhaustion pushed at her eyelids.

"Miss Granger?"

Looking up to find Charlotte still hovering, her vision clearing when she blinked. She frowned, confused to be directly addressed.

"Anything to eat?" Charlotte asked, long lashes batting slowly at her, her arm lowering to offer Hermione the basket of fruit. "Grapes, perhaps?"

Hermione stared down, finding a vine of thick, burgundy grapes — calling to her from another lifetime — something that used to mean something.

Her mind cleared like a shock. She looked up with wide eyes. Charlotte plucked one and extended it to her with a soft smile.

Hermione took it, tucking it away quickly in her hand, as though hiding a stolen good. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a memory of her shaking fingers spelling out with grapes against the Ministry floors what her voice couldn't express.

She searched for Charlotte again, but she'd moved away.

Across the room, Cho Chang met her gaze for the first time, her arms wound around Mulciber's shoulders as he kissed her collarbones. Cho pushed a plump, ripe grape between her painted lips, her eyes burning with the fire of a revolution.

There was a ringing in her ears as Draco stood from the armchair, taking her elbow and muttering his goodbyes. The boys were heavily distracted by now, and let them go without too much of a fuss. Hermione popped the grape into her mouth as Draco turned her around, suddenly terrified that someone might see and discover her secret.

She allowed him to drag her through the room, her eyes darting wildly to take in every girl on a lap, every girl on their knees, every girl laughing and drinking. Cho didn't glance at her again. Charlotte had moved on. She swept the room looking for more eyes, more fire, more grapes.

Not alone.

She'd used grapes to spell out those words on the Ministry floors once. To give a shred of hope to the fifty terrified, bruised girls that had crowded around her, preparing to live out their worst nightmares. But had it been a coincidence? Cho knew what the grapes meant, but how could Charlotte? Had Charlotte truly meant to offer her a symbol of hope? Hermione didn't remember her from the Ministry. Who was she?

Draco led her to a large fireplace, and a jar of Floo powder materialized before them. The flames turned green as he announced, "Malfoy Manor," and with a yank on her arm, the noise from the Lounge snapped out of existence, and she was in the cool, moonlit entryway of Malfoy Manor, with nothing but her heartbeat in her ears.

She breathed heavily, her mind spinning with the questions she needed to ask, the images she wanted to forget.

Draco dropped her arm softly. It fell limply to her side. She screwed her eyes shut, struggling to calm her breathing. She could feel his eyes on her, waiting, but the questions she needed answered felt too intimate and still too large for the Malfoy Manor entryway.

The faintest of touches on her lower back, and he wordlessly led her up the stairs.

The horrors of the evening floated up as they ascended. She shoved the disturbing images aside, forcing away all the questions that felt unimportant and too personal.

How could you just look the other way?

So you just sit there while your friends force those girls to open their mouths and thighs for them?

And the most shameful one, tugging at her chest —

Who was in your lap before me?

They'd reached her bedroom. Hermione pushed the door open with her fingertips and paused, turning around. Draco stood a few long paces away, staring at his shoes. The carpet. Anywhere but her. She took a deep breath and steeled herself, closing the doorway from her heart to her lips, focusing only on the cold questions in her mind.

"Who were all of those girls? I didn't recognize all of them from Hogwarts or the Auction."

Draco tucked his hands in his pockets, and she watched them shake once before stilling. He seemed resigned to answering her questions.

"Some are Muggles from Edinburgh. Some are from prominent families who have challenged the Dark Lord's rule. Some are young witches who were found assisting George Weasley."

Her eyes widened, but she soldiered on. "And they belong to the Carrows?"

"The Carrows have been assigned as the keepers of Edinburgh Castle. They maintain the grounds and host any gatherings like tonight. The girls in silver collars are Carrow Girls. They host the Lounge and are available for… entertainment."

She swayed on her feet, the memories of the 'entertainment' still fresh in her mind.

"And the girls in gold collars," she said, feeling the weight of it on her neck. "They are owned by Death Eaters," she inferred, leaning a hand on the doorway.

Draco's eyes flickered over her. "You should sleep."

"I will. Later. Gold collars?" She began to take off her shoes. His eyes caught on the movement.

"Yes, they are owned. Generally, they were the ones Auctioned. But some Gold Collars were caught later and sold to private buyers. The less valuable ones became Carrow Girls."

Hermione sucked in a breath. She needed to keep her mind focused — ignore the rage she could feel brewing beneath her skin. If she lingered too long on her emotions, she would lose this opportunity to squeeze answers from him like a sponge.

"Every one of those boys owns a Lot? At the dinner table?" The colors of the collars swirled and mixed in her mind until she couldn't remember who wore what.

"Flint owns Clearwater, Pucey owns his girl. Bones belongs to Travers, but Goyle has spent almost every Sickle in his vault to rent her every Friday evening."

"Rent her," she muttered to herself, shaking her head. The bile in her throat bubbled again, and whenever she closed her eyes she saw Susan's hands shaking as she opened Goyle's trousers. A slow chill spread over her shoulders, like and ice cube sliding down her spine. She looked up to find Draco's eyes still fixed on the floor. Suddenly her blood felt white-hot again. "And how did you manage when your Lot had Dragon Pox? I assume you still had a girl on your arm?"

His throat clicked. And his eye twitched infinitesimally as he said, "I used a Carrow Girl. Or I borrowed from someone."

The fire she wanted breathe onto the entire castle of Edinburgh burned inside of her.

"'Borrowed.' Like a cup of sugar," she hissed. She watched it land on him, like an arrow finding the center ring. His eyes jerked up to her, and she continued. "And did you take them to the Lounge. Did they properly thank you for giving them a place to 'be who they truly are?'"

"No." His eyes were hard. "Things aren't usually so intense in the Lounge, at least in our circle. I think your presence… excited them." He rolled his shoulders back, jaw tight. "When I've had a girl before, I've kept it limited."

She glared at him as the heat and anger unfurled in her chest. The boys had acted out more than usual that evening simply because she was there.

And in the past, when she was hidden away in her ivory tower, Draco had another girl on his at his side, forced into that room. Threading his fingers through someone else's locks, rubbing another set of legs. It had to be her anger and disgust that made her demand, "Who?"

He tilted his head.

"Who have you kept it 'limited' with?" The words boiled out of her, like a sludging potion that couldn't be suppressed. "Which of my friends — your classmates — have served your wine, and sat on your knee, and listened to your disgusting friends boast about how their inaction won them a war?" she spat.

Draco stared at her, mouth open. A new feeling bubbled in her stomach — shame.

She was jealous. Of some poor, faceless, terrified girl. Her breath rattled in her chest and she felt black spots in her vision as his expression cooled.

"It's late, Granger. I'll send up a Calming Draught—"

"I don't need a Calming Draught—"

"—and some Dreamless Sleep, and we can talk in the morning."

"I want to know who you pulled in your lap and groped while I had Dragon Pox—"

His eyes flashed. "You want an itemized list? What does it matter!"

"It matters because you're telling me that my presence alone tonight made it worse for those girls. It matters because while I've been locked away in Malfoy Manor, other girls had to suffer through that — that vile display—"

She choked, her throat closing as a single tear betrayed her by rolling down her cheek. She slapped it away, furious with herself.

Silence for a few moments as he studied her. She glared back, lifting her chin.

"You're letting your exhaustion and experiences this evening cloud your reasoning," he said simply, sounding like Snape, and she hated that he'd read her like a book. "You should sleep and regroup your thoughts."

Scanning his perfectly impassive features, she wondered for the first time where he'd learned Occlumency — wondering how strong it was.

Fairly strong, if she had to guess. It was like looking at a mask.

She pressed her lips together. "I have more questions."

"They can wait."

She blinked up at him. "You'll answer any question I have tomorrow?"

He stared at her blankly, and said, "Yes."

"Eight in the morning," she demanded.

"Noon."

"Nine."

"Granger, it is after one. You will be up for another two to three hours writing a list of things to ask, and you will spend your morning Occluding and meditating," he said, his eyes grey and empty. "You will sleep."

She narrowed her eyes at him, feeling her heart pound with anger at his assumptions, and irritation that those assumptions were correct. He was treating her like a child. Or a slave.

Her hands flew to her neck, yanking her hair to the side and turning around to offer him the clasp of the collar. "Get this fucking thing off of me," she snarled.

He paused. "Now that I've activated it, you should be able to remove it yourself—"

She scrambled for the clasp, feeling it fall away under her fingers, clear air returning to her lungs. She tossed the collar at his feet.

"You better clear your afternoon, Malfoy," she hissed, and slammed the door behind her.

Once the slip was off, she threw it on the floor, feeling like she could breathe again. She turned the bathwater to scalding and dripped several potions in the tub, letting the aroma cleanse her head as her body sunk into the burning waters.

She compiled her list. She simmered in the possibilities. She stared at the bathroom wall until the waters were cool and still, both in her mind and against her skin.

When she woke in the morning after only a few hours' rest, she entered the routine she'd established the week before — plucking books from the library and taking them to the Conservatory. Every hour or so, she took a break to mediate. Tuck away the memories from last night, like books on a shelf. She couldn't let her emotions run away with her again. She'd been careless last night. As the clock ticked toward twelve, Hermione was certain Draco was going to avoid her.

But at noon on the dot, the door to the Conservatory pulled open, and she looked up to find him strolling toward her, wearing a pale grey button up and dragon leather shoes — out of uniform. He looked as if the hours of space between them hadn't done any favors for him either.

She stood from her bench and wrapped her cardigan tighter around herself in the humid chill of the morning. As she prepared to ask questions, she realized that Draco had managed to strengthen his mask overnight. He stared at her, a slight tilt to his head, with eyes cool and grey.

That's just fine, she thought. I've strengthened mine as well.

"What happened to Edinburgh?"

A slight expansion of his ribs, like he was taking a deep breath but trying not to show it. "The Death Eaters seized the castle two weeks after the Battle of Hogwarts. They took over the Muggle city of Edinburgh a few hours later, but most of it had already been evacuated. The Scandinavian Ministry had an emissary there, and she acted quickly. This was a few days before the Apparition Line was finished."

Hermione blinked, trying to keep her focus on getting all the answers she needed.

"And what's the fallout of this?" she said. "Surely the Muggle world has noticed that Edinburgh has been extinguished from the map."

"There was a confrontation once the Dark Lord's forces caught on. The papers reported a terrorist attack, a nuclear explosion. The Muggles aren't concerned with the comings and goings of Edinburgh any longer. Not until Muggle scientists have examined and decontaminated it. The Muggle government thinks it will be years before it's safe."

She felt her heart in her throat as she asked, "And why the castle? Does he have plans to seize other castles and estates?"

"No. Edinburgh is his experiment." A pause as Hermione tried to think about what he meant.

A memory of the Ministry's newest statue rose in her mind. Muggles, gnarled and twisted, their faces turned in blinding admiration towards the wizards above them. Magic is Might.

A jolt down her spine that set every nerve ending on edge.

"But whatever's left of the Order didn't want to take any chances," Draco was saying. "The Muggle Prime Minister escaped the U.K. shortly after the Battle, and the Dark Lord installed a new Prime Minister, under Dolohov's Imperius Curse. We have it on good authority that the Queen and young princes are either in Canada or Australia."

Her eyes flickered once before she settled a mask over her face, a lake with still waters. Australia. Her parents.

Draco's gaze was on her, and he blinked once, eyes narrowing to examine the reaction she failed to hide.

She needed to ask. She needed to know if the Death Eaters were searching for the Queen in Australia, but it would confirm whatever suspicions were in his mind. She couldn't trust the secret with anyone else. Her own mind was hardly safe from prying — she couldn't hand Draco Malfoy the key to her parents just by asking the question—

He looked away from her. "The Dark Lord isn't interested in pursuing Muggles beyond the ones in Edinburgh. Politicians, royals… commoners. They hold no interest for him right now."

Her heartbeat drummed in her fingertips. She could breathe again. She could think clearly.

She wrote these answers down on her mental checklist, stowing them into a tight corner of her library of shelves.

"You touched my tattoo as we crossed the threshold. Does one need to be escorted by a Death Eater to enter and exit Edinburgh?"

He nodded, and she tucked the information away for a future escape plan.

"What is the purpose of the collars?"

"Aesthetic, ownership, and hierarchy," he replied. "The Gold Collars have access to the entire castle, with the assumption that the Death Eater is keeping a careful eye on his Lot. The Carrow Girls are allowed everywhere except the private parlours in the west building. With the exception of Charlotte, of course."

Her ears perked up, and she tilted her head. "And what happens in the private parlours?"

"Official Death Eater business. Conversations with foreign dignitaries." He glanced down at the floor, and twisted his ring around his thumb.

So that was the real purpose of these parties, then. Entertaining and seducing government officials.

"You said the silver collars are owned by the Carrows," she confirmed, and he nodded. "I thought Neville was bought by the Carrows. Where is he?"

"Longbottom was traded away. Given to Rookwood in exchange for the two girls he'd bought at the Auction."

Rookwood. She tried to remember if he had been there the night before. "Does Rookwood keep a harem too?" she asked coolly.

His eyes landed on the vines over her shoulder. "Longbottom was found to be lacking for the purposes of Edinburgh Castle. Very few Death Eaters and dignitaries found him acceptable for private uses. And he was deemed uninspiring in the other uses for male slaves."

She felt a spike of panic in her chest.

A lake with still waters.

"What other uses?"

Draco pressed his lips together, and tightly said, "Arena fights. Slave versus slave."

Her body jerked away, turning to the windows. She breathed deep, pushing away the images her mind conjured.

"Arena fights," she repeated.

A thought dawned in her, and she spun back to him, finding him already watching her from his place near her bench.

"Have you ever seen Ron at these parties?"

She could see his jaw clench even from this far away. He replied with a stilted, "No. I haven't seen him since he was requested by the Dark Lord, before Macnair's death."

She nodded, trying to stitch together the pieces and file them away for later. Taking a deep breath and centering herself, she prepared to ask the one question she knew she didn't want to hear the answer to.

"And Ginny?" she said, and the words floated to him like a feather. "Why is she no longer at the parties?"

She watched him swallow, and turn his eyes over her shoulder again.

"A few weeks ago, she broke a champagne glass and sliced the neck of a guard and the aide to the Hungarian Minister. Both are dead."

Hermione scarcely breathed, feelings the words like a bucket of water over her head. She tried to imagine Ginny, running feral through the Lounge with the jagged stem of a crystal glass in her hand. She pressed her eyes closed, and said, "And I assume she didn't get away with this?"

When Draco did not respond, she looked to him and found him staring out one of the Conservatory windows, eyes far away.

"Malfoy."

"No, she did not get away with it."

A deep breath. She crossed her arms, holding her cardigan closed.

"And?" she prompted.

"She was disciplined. Publicly."

"Tell me what happened to her. I can handle it. I've seen what happens at these parties—"

His face snapped back to her and he hissed, "You haven't seen anything, Granger."

Her blood froze in her veins, and she fought to appear calm as she stared back at him. "I have a right to know. I'm not a child, Malfoy."

A long pause. "She was taken into the Lounge." He ran a hand through his hair. "Where Avery made an example of her. In several ways, which I'm sure you can imagine."

Somewhere, there was a lake with still waters. But a tempest was brewing over the one in her mind's eye.

"Were there others?"

"Just him, though there were spectators. She was in no shape afterward to be shared. I was…" Draco cleared his throat. "I only saw the very end of it."

She spun to face the violet flowers she favored most in this greenhouse, gasping silently. She couldn't let him see her lose control. Fighting to steady her breathing and clear the images that flashed through her mind, she stood tall, blinking until her eyes stopped burning and she could see clearly again.

There would be another time to process what had happened to Ginny. But for now she had a role to play. She'd convinced him she could handle the truth, and that's exactly what she intended to do. Ignoring the buzzing in her ears and the tightness in her chest, she forced her shoulders to relax. She thought of Ginny as she stared at the purple hues, suffering torture and rape daily at Avery's estate. Had it been worth it?

Her own treatment at Edinburgh Castle had been tame. Draco had seen to that. But she'd still seen enough to enrage her. She could be like Ginny, finding the fire to slice at them, even if it meant her own death.

Or she could give into her helplessness and behave like Draco asked her to — push it all away at home and thank the gods that she didn't have to suffer like the others. But she'd been given signs of hope by girls who had no business hoping. A grape. Her hand grabbed under the table by nine others with glass in their knees.

And Cho was waiting for her.

"Now that I know what to expect," she said, her voice clear and strong, "I will play my part better. The next time we go, I will be better prepared to—"

"We're not going again."

It took a moment for the words to sink in. She spun to him, eyes wide. "What?"

He stood with his hands in his trouser pockets, eyes dead and empty.

"We've made our appearances. You've been seen." He swallowed. "You won't go again. Not for a long time, at least."

Her heart pounded. Edinburgh was her only chance to communicate with her friends — her only connection to what was happening outside of Malfoy Manor.

"So I'll just contract Dragon Pox again?" she sniped.

"I'll speak to my father, and we'll come up with something—"

"They'll see through you in an instant. It will be far too suspicious—"

"What's suspicious, Granger," he hissed, his eyes hot, "is that my Lot and I can barely stand being in the same room, much less touching each other—"

Her mouth fell open in a snarl. "Whose fault is that!"

"—and although I've been fucking her daily, I still haven't been able to remove the stick from Hermione Granger's ass—"

"How dare you." She stormed towards him until he was just a breath away. "You gave me no information going into that castle. No way of knowing what to expect or how to act. You gave me no indication of how I should touch you because I can't touch you without you running away like a beaten dog—"

He turned away from her with a choked sound, and the rest died in her throat. He rolled his shoulders back, and she watched his ribs move to take a deep breath.

"Listen," he said quietly. "If we go back, Marcus will make you take the potion."

She rolled her eyes, feeling the fire burn in her belly again. "Who do I belong to? You or Marcus?"

He turned back to her, gazing down at his ring. "Every girl has taken this potion at some point. And Flint is brewing an especially large batch for next week's party. If I refuse, they will suspect something is off about our relationship." His eyes flickered up to her. "Marcus already suspects."

Her brain moved quickly through the different options. She circled one possibility, but she needed more information.

"I'd like to see that potion," she said.

He narrowed his eyes at her. "For what purpose?"

"I'd like to see it broken down. I'd like to know the ingredients and effects."

His jaw tightened. "Granger, if you mean to mimic this potion—"

"Do you have a vial of it? I assume you have a potions kit. Perhaps a laboratory?"

"—I've already said we're not going back—"

"Draco. You owe me this."

She watched it land on him, the words dying on his lips before they could be uttered. She tightened her fingers around the sleeves of her cardigan, and tilted her chin up in defiance.

His eyes lingered on her face before looking away. "I don't have a vial. I would need to procure one."

"Excellent. I'll wait here." She returned to her bench, plucked up her book, and opened to the page she was last on.

She pretended to read innocently until she finally heard his shoes shuffle toward the doors, disappearing.

Her shelves trembled, begging her to think about sliced throats, a tight fist of red hair and jeering men—

A lake with still waters. She breathed deep, tasting blood from where she'd bitten the inside of her cheek. She tucked Ginny away onto a top shelf next to Harry.

Some time later, just as her book on the history of magical Asia had taken her interest again, the Conservatory doors opened. She looked up, and her breath caught to find Narcissa looking for her amongst the leaves.

When her blue eyes landed on her, Narcissa smiled, folded her hands, and said, "Tea?"

Hermione felt a warmth return to her body that had been absent for hours. Followed by a stab of guilt that she had someone who sat with her for tea. With a quick smile, Hermione nodded and shifted her discarded books off the second seat.

Narcissa did what she did best — distracted from the horrors outside Hermione's gilded cage with her truly pleasant company. Hermione felt her body urging her to relax into the familiar comfort of it, but she resisted.

After a pause where they both turned to a book in their laps, a cup of tea on each side table, Narcissa said, "I heard you went to Edinburgh Castle last night."

Hermione darted a sideways glance to find Narcissa's lips curling into her tea. "Yes," she managed.

"I haven't had the pleasure of attending a gathering there. Nor do I have any intention to." She took a long sip.

Hermione swallowed, wondering how much Narcissa knew about her son's activities there. The things he witnessed. Turned a blind eye to.

"It wasn't to my liking either." Hermione stared into her teacup.

Narcissa patted her lips and placed her teacup on the end table. "When they were in my house, there was little I could do about that kind of behavior. It was… a powerless feeling, Hermione."

Hermione blinked up at her, hardly daring to breathe.

"And even then I wondered, 'How can I not stop this? How can I possibly stand by and allow this to happen?'" She shook her head. "But I had little choice in the matter. My principles were overruled by the need to keep my family safe." Narcissa pushed a lock of blonde hair behind her ear. "I think it's a common philosophy amongst us Malfoys," she said with a smile. "Survive. In dangerous times, let pragmatism be the death of principles."

Narcissa turned her eyes on Hermione for the first time, a fire in them that Hermione had seen the night before in a different pair of eyes. "And once they've underestimated you — strike."

Hermione was still, waiting for her breath to return. Waiting for Narcissa to smile and return to discussing the weather.

It didn't come.

Hermione's lips parted, skin tingling with adrenaline.

The doors flung open, and she jumped. Draco was stopped in the doorway, staring at the sight of his mother sitting with her. She watched him push a hand into his pocket, a vial disappearing.

"Mother," he greeted. "I have to borrow Granger, I'm afraid."

Hermione stood, placing her teacup down. Her heart pounded with the fire ignited in her.

She had to break down the potion. She had to learn how to mimic it. She had to go back to Edinburgh.

"Of course, dear," Narcissa said. She gave a quick nod to Hermione, her face as serene and unassuming as ever. "I'll see you for breakfast tomorrow, Hermione."

Hermione nodded back, and moved quickly to the doorway, following Draco out.

He swept from the Conservatory, already halfway down the corridor by the time she caught up to him. Following him down hallways she had yet to memorize and turning down another staircase to a lower floor, she struggled to keep up with his long legs.

A door at the end of the hallway appeared, and Hermione's brows jumped when she recognized the Notice-Me-Not Charm. No wonder she hadn't spent time down here yet.

He pushed open the door and lit the candles with a wave. She stepped into a potions laboratory lined with beakers and cauldrons and ingredients. Her eyes scanned the walls greedily, searching for secrets and rare finds.

"Is this your father's laboratory?"

He looked over his shoulder at her. "It's mine." He pulled his eyes from hers. "You are welcome to it, now that you know the way."

Her eyes widened. The Suppressant Potion. She could break it down here if only she had a vial. She tucked away her excitement at the possibilities, and returned to the present, where Draco was lighting the fires.

He retrieved an elm spoon and pulled the vial from his pocket, placing it next to the heating pot. Then he stepped aside. She blinked at him, realizing that he was allowing her to do the work.

She stared at the lab table. She hadn't thought she'd ever be allowed near magical ingredients again.

She stepped forward, eyeing the cauldron. Her fingers pried the cork from the vial, and she tipped two drops into the bottom.

"Where did you get it?" she asked.

"Blaise. He has a few vials, but he doesn't like to use them."

She looked up at him, finding his eyes on the cauldron, and quickly turned away.

The shelves were impeccably organized. She read each label until she found an acid that would work. She pulled down distilled water and a honey paste for thickening. She searched for an oil, perhaps beaver oil or—

Long fingers next to hers, tilting behind a tall bottle to pluck out a jar labeled Niffler Saliva. Her eyes grew wide. Snape would never let them use such expensive products in school. She glanced up at Draco, taking the jar from his fingertips. He was standing as far away as possible while still being able to reach the shelves. He looked away.

She drizzled the acid, added the distilled water, and prepared the second cauldron with honey paste. She felt his eyes on her hands as she worked, though she refused to look up to confirm. The steam rose as the cauldron bubbled, and she wondered why Slytherins always brewed their potions in the most ill-conceived underground locations. Sweat rolled down the back of her neck, and she pushed her hair over her shoulder as her curls expanded.

He stood by her side, stepping in silently when it was time for wandwork. She scribbled her findings into an empty notebook nearby.

Ashwinder eggs, rose petals, and moonstone for the obsessive euphoria. He was right about the asphodel, possibly for a bit of drowsiness. Porcupine quills to add enhance the euphoria. Sneezewort for confusion and a bit of recklessness.

Mixed with the hair of the intended partner, the drinker would become dizzy and confused until their skin touched their partner's. The confusion would fade and the obsession would begin, euphoria spiking. Pulling away from the partner would bring back the confusion and dizziness.

Hermione frowned down at her notes. It would wear off eventually, but it could take hours.

"Have you ever used this potion at the parties? On a Carrow Girl?" she asked, breaking the hour-long silence.

"No. But I've seen it."

She stared down at the ingredients list. "We should be able to make an antidote fairly easily. I can take it before the party on Friday, and then when I'm given the potion, I can mimic its effects."

When no response came, she looked up to find him facing her, leaning one hip on the lab table, his lips pursed and eyes fixed on the floor.

"Malfoy?"

He didn't look up. "Granger, every eye will be on you next week. Not just Montague and Pucey and the others. Flint is planning quite the spectacle, and most of the guests are interested in you already. Even without the potion."

His jaw clenched, like he was stopping himself from saying more.

She crossed her arms. "You're suggesting that I wouldn't be convincing?"

He paused, and tilted his head. "How do you suggest we steer clear of penetrative sex while your… obsessive lust drives you?"

She felt a blush rise in her neck and watched the same flush spread over his cheekbones.

"I see," she said, throat tight. "Have you had penetrative sex in the Lounge before?"

His eye twitched and he shook his head, still focused on the floor.

"Then perhaps it's your preference to stick to more minor acts while in public. That's something you can sell, right?"

He took a deep breath, and the frustrated sigh on his exhale prickled the back of her neck.

"And what 'minor acts' are you suggesting we engage in, Granger?"

She swallowed, listening to her throat click loudly in the small room. She searched for the words to articulate—

He grabbed the honey paste and distilled water from the table and capped them. "I've let you break down the potion. I 'owed you' that." He turned from her, putting away the ingredients on the shelf. "But you've never seen girls on this potion. It's humiliating. Degrading. You have no idea what it does—"

"I do, actually. I just broke it down—"

"And is research also how you've prepared for the practical application of this deception, Granger?" His back to her. A jar slammed down onto a shelf.

Her mouth fell open, indignation burning in her gut.

"Are you suggesting that because I'm a virgin that I've never lusted after someone? That I wouldn't understand those urges?"

She lifted a brow and watched his fingers shake over the beakers on the shelf, glass clicking.

"I'm sure you have an idea of it, but you've seen the ingredients. This Potion is no joke, Granger."

He swallowed, turning back to the table and pressing his lips together as Hermione glared daggers at him.

She remembered the simpering smiles Cho would give Mulciber. The flirty laugh from Charlotte to Flint. And Narcissa's reminder about when to strike.

His hands reached for the empty cauldron to shelve it and she lurched forward, grabbing the collar of his shirt. His quick reflexes caught her, hands coming up to her elbows, head turning to her, and she caught sight of his shocked expression as they stumbled backwards to the shelves, her mouth landing on the corner of his.

Her chest fell against him as her lips slid from his mouth with their tumbling feet. He righted them, holding her arms up, but she focused on the feeling of connecting her skin to his. How dizzying it would be to not touch him. How right it was to kiss his jaw.

He grabbed her shoulders and shoved her back, her hips slamming into the table edge. His eyes were wide and hot, almost scared.

"What are you doing?"

She panted and let her eyes glaze over. "Draco, please."

His eyes widened, and she caught a glimpse of black pupils before he backed away. She stumbled forward, reaching up to pull his head down to her, but before she could connect their lips he pushed away again.

"Granger, stop—"

"I need you. Please, Draco." Her fingers wound into his hair, and she rose up on her toes again, aiming for his lips, and murmuring, "Touch me."

Quick as lightning, her hands were off of him and her body was pushed into the table. He was across the room in three strides.

"I told you I could do it," she panted, and he froze in the doorway.

His shoulder twitched, and then he was gone.

She tried to catch her breath, her skin humming and lips tingling from where she'd touched him.

~*~

Draco diligently ignored her for the next six days. The first few days, she told herself that it was a good thing, but by Wednesday night, she started to get nervous. She had to go back. Regardless of how they might feel about one another at the moment.

She finally sought him out on Friday morning, finding him in the kitchens taking an apple from the elves' basket.

She placed her hands on her hips and said, "I assume we'll be leaving at ten tonight?"

He turned, and his eyes scanned her before replying, "No. No party tonight."

She lifted a doubtful brow. "Why?"

"It's been postponed." He tossed the apple between his hands, keeping his eyes away from her. "A mission from the Dark Lord has taken precedence."

"You can't avoid me forever, Malfoy. We're in this together whether you like it or not, and the sooner you—"

"Did you hear a word I just said? It's not happening tonight." He brushed past her without another word.

Hermione huffed at the empty kitchen, fists clenched. He was clearly lying.

So at ten o'clock that night, she cracked her door open, waiting to hear the sounds of him leaving the Manor. After half an hour with her eye on the door, she moved to her balcony windows, wondering if he'd left through his own fireplace. While she still didn't have access to her balcony, she could press her face to the glass and look for the light coming from his bedroom.

It was dark.

She glared and stomped into her bathroom, deciding on a bath while she waited for him to return. As she relaxed into the warm water and bubbles, she tried to think of ways to convince Draco to bring her back to Edinburgh. He didn't think she was capable of the sexual challenges they would face, but she could convince him. She had to.

She had to get back to Cho. She needed to figure out who Charlotte was and whether that grape had meant what she thought it did. She'd been stuck inside of Malfoy Manor for two months now, and Edinburgh was the closest she'd gotten to the remains of the Order.

Let pragmatism be the death of principles.

Hermione had to prove to him that she could handle herself. Whatever it took.

After midnight, she dragged an armchair to her balcony window and read a book with one eye on Draco's balcony, waiting for a sign of life from inside the room.

At a quarter past two, her bleary eyes drifted up from her pages. Light was pouring from inside his room onto his balcony. She jumped up, wide awake, the book tumbling on the carpet. Yanking a jumper over her pajamas, she marched out her door and to his.

She rapped on his door and waited, anger unfurling in her belly.

When no response came, she knocked louder, more insistently.

She was just raising her fist to pound against the wood when it swung open. Draco stared down at her, leaning forward on the doorframe with one hand still on the door.

"Why are you still up?" he demanded.

She glared at him, lifting her chin. "I should be asking you the same thing. You haven't been out, have you, Malfoy?"

He swallowed and said, "I have. I was on a Mission from the Dark Lord."

"Then why do you smell like cigars and Firewhisky," she hissed.

She would have this out with him. She would demand that he take her next week.

Hermione stepped forward to push past him into his bedroom, but Draco stood in the way, blocking her. She blinked up at him, scowling. After lying egregiously to her, the least he could do was let her in his damn room.

She stepped to the side and he moved with her, obscuring her vision. She stared up at him, a pale horror cracking over her skin.

He had a guest.

Her mind conjured a rapid-fire sequence of images of a Carrow Girl sprawled across his sheets — the activities she'd just interrupted.

"Is there someone here?" she gasped.

He stared down at her, jerked his head once, and said, "No. Just in the middle of something."

"Oh, come on, Draco," a familiar voice called from inside the room. "Give it up. She's caught you."

Hermione's mind whirred, struggling to place the voice that sounded like — that sounded like…

She watched Draco close his eyes in resignation.

A girlish chuckle from inside the bedroom. And though the tone was all wrong, Hermione recognized the sound of that voice.

She pushed through him, sliding under his arm and found Hermione Granger sitting in his armchair, legs crossed and sipping a glass of scotch with a smile. Her lips were redder than Charlotte's had been, lashes darkened and lids smoky, her black slip sliding up her thigh.

Hermione's heart skipped and stuttered as her stunned mind tried to place the smirk on her face. The smirk on her own face, worn by someone else.

And when she watched her own brow lift into a perfect arch, the realization dawned on her.

"Pansy?"

The girl in Hermione's body smiled brightly, and toasted her. "Brightest Witch of Her Age."

The puzzle fell into place in her mind as her eyes turned to Draco's carpets. He'd gone to Edinburgh after all. And instead of taking her, he'd taken Pansy Parkinson in her body.

"Hmm. That look of furious disgust there?" Pansy said, pointing at Hermione's face. "I think I pulled that off quite nicely tonight."

Hermione couldn't find her voice. She could do nothing but watch as Pansy stood from the chair, patting down her dress and brushing Hermione's curls over her shoulder. Not only did she have on makeup, she'd styled the unruly locks into something soft and lustrous. Even as she walked, Hermione could see the telltale signs of Pansy— the confident strut and sway to her hips that she recognized from Hogwarts — but it looked wrong in Hermione's body. The artless grace and sensuality.

Hermione's cheeks burned, suddenly aware of her baggy pajama bottoms and shapeless jumper.

Pansy approached Draco, reached for the gold collar around her neck, and extended it to him. She'd painted her nails scarlet.

"I'm going to get out of your hair." She turned to Hermione sharply. "Or, your hair, truly." She laughed at her joke, running her hand over Hermione's curls. "I must apologize to you for ever making fun of your hair in school. It really is quite a hassle." She smiled. "I won't miss it. But your arse, Granger." Pansy ran her hands over her hips, rounding to Hermione's backside. "I much prefer this. I know Draco's preference is—"

"That's enough, Pans." His voice was cold and cutting.

"Just trying to lighten the mood. Well, I guess I'll be going." Pansy strolled to the fireplace. "Looks like you two have loads to talk about."

Pansy winked, tossed the Floo powder, and disappeared.

The shock that had frozen her for the past few minutes was fading to a fiery churning in her stomach, spreading outward and lighting up every nerve ending on her skin. Hermione felt Draco's presence next to her, but she refused to look up at him.

"You took Pansy Parkinson to Edinburgh. In my body."

She heard his throat click.

"It was the easiest of options."

She scoffed, whipping around to glare at him. "Easiest."

"Yes, easiest. For both of us." He ran a hand through his hair. "Pansy had experienced the effects of Flint's potion. She knew what it did. I brewed an antidote, like you suggested. And she mimicked the effects."

Fury burned in her bloodstream.

"The point of breaking down the potion, was for me to take the antidote so I could return to Edinburgh—"

"And the point of me asking Pansy was to spare you from that." His eyes finally met hers. His mask perfectly in place except for the spots of pink on his cheekbones. "We put on a convincing show. The boys should be appeased for now."

Rage choked her, her breath growing shallow as she thought about her own body in Pansy Parkinson's hands, moving over him.

"What kind of 'convincing show," she hissed, stepping closer to Draco as he retreated.

"I did it for your own good, Granger."

"You violated my body—"

"Your body was going to be violated either way," he snarled, holding his ground. "This way, you didn't have to be in it."

Her arm moved quickly, slicing through the air and slapping him across the face. His head scarcely moved despite the angry, red handprint on his cheek. His eyes were hot on hers as they panted in each other's faces.

"Did you have sex with her in my body?" she demanded, hating the way her voice shook.

His eyes dragged across her face, lips pressed together firmly until he answered, "No."

She felt something untangle in her chest, loosening like a rope. She looked away.

"If you put on such a 'convincing show,' then I assume they won't force you to use the potion again," she said, her voice deadly calm.

"No. But you've been seen twice in a row now. I won't need to bring you again—"

"You will bring me." She stared into his eyes, demanding to be heard. "You said it yourself — they already suspect something is off. The other girls go every week with their masters, and so will you and I." She tilted her chin up and watched his gaze drop to her mouth and back up to her eyes. "We will continue to appear at Edinburgh Castle. And you'll stop treating me like a child who's unable to navigate this new world."

The silence sent shivers down her spine. She summoned whatever confidence she had left and said, "Do I make myself clear?"

His eyes were dark, the grey fading into black dilated centers. She felt his breath on her cheek and the heat from his chest just inches from her own.

Dropping his eyes once more before finding her gaze again, he whispered, "Perfectly, Granger."

"Good," she said, stepping back and reaching for the door.

She disappeared back to her own room, letting her mind wander to the 'convincing show' Pansy had put on in her own body, wondering if she would be able to replicate it the following week.

Hermione woke up the next morning with her blood still boiling. She rescheduled breakfast with Narcissa and locked herself away, researching and reading in angry solitude. Every time she'd let her mind wander, it would conjure images of Draco with Hermione's doppelgänger in his lap, moving as Pansy Parkinson moves and kissing like Pansy Parkinson kisses.

So she kept it occupied well past dinner time, until she was too exhausted to think.

She woke early on Sunday morning, determined to speak to Draco before breakfast. After compiling another list of questions for him — none of which had to do with the "convincing show" he and Pansy had put on two nights before — she finally left her room and rapped smartly on his door. She waited for a more than acceptable amount of time before rapping again. The door handle was immovable, as expected. She frowned in frustration. After fifteen more minutes of aggravated pacing, knocking, and waiting, she headed downstairs to meet Narcissa.

Only Narcissa wasn't at the table. The dining room was set for two, but it was empty.

Hermione had a brief flash of panic, remembering how all three Malfoys had disappeared before, leaving her alone for weeks.

"Mippy?"

A pop! sounded from behind her.

"Miss!"

"Good morning, Mippy," Hermione said, smiling down at her through the tightness in her chest. "Where might I find Narcissa?"

"Missus is in her study!"

Perhaps Narcissa had forgotten? "Thank you. I'll visit her there." She hurried out of the room before Mippy could blink her overlarge eyes.

Hermione traveled down the corridor to Narcissa's private study. She needed to see for herself. She needed to know they hadn't left her alone again. Lucius had been gone for weeks. Draco wasn't responding. If Narcissa was gone too…

She turned a corner and froze at the sound of a voice rising to biting tones, floating into the hallway from behind a cracked door.

Her pulse calmed when she recognized Narcissa's voice, then quickened with her rising curiosity. She paused, debating. Spying on Narcissa's private conversations felt like crossing a line.

Hermione took a quiet step backward, preparing to turn on her heel—

"...our son. And now he's off… dangerous and... He's out of his depth—"

Narcissa's voice cut out as she ranted. Hermione let the words wash over her, heart hammering in her ears. They were talking about Draco.

A few more heartbeats, and her self-control shattered. She tiptoed forward, ears straining for a response.

Was Lucius home?

She wasn't eavesdropping, she told herself as she crept forward, guilt twisting in her gut. She was simply going to take her time before knocking.

"... becoming a liability," she heard Narcissa hiss. "Even the Dark Lord must see. Remind him why these revels exist in the first place… not just to wet their cocks—"

Hermione's brows jumped, and she stifled a gasp at hearing such crude language from Narcissa Malfoy. She craned her neck to peek through the crack in the door and found her pacing at the opposite side of the room, in front of the fireplace. The Floo.

A low baritone rumbling from behind a pair of chairs, where Hermione couldn't see. She took a shaky breath and knocked faintly at the door, praying Narcissa wouldn't hear her.

"I will not watch my language. Your friends are running wild here in England without the Dark Lord's oversight. Do something about it before our son gets killed."

She was talking about Edinburgh. Hermione's mind tumbled through the ways that Draco could be harmed by the events that had taken place there, but before she could process it—

"I have to go. Miss Granger is at my door, and I'm late for breakfast with her. I'll send your regards."

Hermione held her breath as Narcissa's heels clicked towards the door.

"Good morning," Narcissa said. Her face was flushed, but not a hair was out of place. "I apologize for keeping you waiting."

"It's me who should be apologizing," Hermione rushed, heat creeping up her neck. "I came looking for you, and then I — heard voices. I didn't want to interrupt, but I wasn't here for very long—"

"Of course, dear," said Narcissa smoothly, the anger of the previous conversation melting away. "Unfortunately, I'm afraid I can't take breakfast with you. I have several urgent matters to attend to."

Hermione nodded her acceptance and said in a small voice, "Draco is gone?"

Narcissa took a deep breath and nodded. "He is in Italy. Dealing with an unexpected incident. I'm afraid I can't say much more than that." She pulled a thin letter from her robes and extended it to Hermione. "He asked me to give this to you."

Hermione stared at the parchment. "For me?"

"Yes," Narcissa said. "He had to leave rather abruptly, and he wanted to put your mind at ease."

Hermione blinked, gaping up at her. "He said that?"

"Technically, I believe he said, 'that bloody witch will give me hell if I disappear.' But I'm sure those were his true sentiments."

Hermione's fingers paused in grasping the note, and she looked up to see Narcissa smirking. Her cheeks heated, and she ducked her head.

Narcissa left Hermione to take breakfast in the dining room alone. Hermione managed to pour a cup of coffee from the carafe, add the sugar and milk, and stir before her curiosity won out and she ripped open the wax seal.

Granger,

I have some important business in Italy. Allow me to head off your questions.
No — I don't know for how long.
No — I can't say why. Yet.
Yes — if I am home by Friday, we will still be going to Edinburgh.
Yes — I've eaten breakfast. How kind of you to ask.

D.M.

She glared down at the letter, as if it was Draco himself, lifting a brow at her and strutting away.

Italy.

She racked her memories for mentions of Italy. Coverage of the political climate there — or any other foreign country, for that matter — had been scarce in the Prophet. She expected that would change once Voldemort had more international support.

After breakfast, Hermione visited the kitchens and asked Remmy for the Daily Prophet, like she did every morning. She blinked down at the headline, not even bothering to thank a sour-faced Remmy before she huffed and waddled away.

ITALIAN MINISTER DEAD BY HEART ATTACK
by Rita Skeeter

Antonio Bravieri, Italian Minister for Magic, was found dead in his chambers Saturday evening, suffering from a fatal heart attack.

The Minister had paid a visit to the Dark Lord's castle earlier Saturday afternoon to pledge his government's support for the Dark Lord and the Great Order. Tragically, it would be his last official act as leader of the Italian Magical community.

Constantine Romano, Head of the Transportation Department, has vowed to carry out Bravieri's final vision for his country, and has been appointed to the title of Minister in Bravieri's place. Emissaries to the Dark Lord are assisting with the transition this week, helping ensure the partnership between our two countries.

The lies jumped off the page, sticking out like thorns.

The Minister had been found dead the day after he visited Voldemort? Not likely. And his last official act was to swear fealty to Voldemort? Hermione rolled her eyes, shaking her head at the paper. He'd clearly gotten himself killed, and now Draco was part of the mission to replace him with some kind of Voldemort puppet, like Pius Thicknesse.

Hermione leaned back against the wall outside the kitchens, listening to the elves work. Unless she was very much mistaken, Voldemort had just carried out a major political coup. But why send Draco? Had he gained enough importance in the Death Eater's ranks that he was now replacing his father in his absence? She shivered, dread twisting in her stomach.

She spent the rest of the day looking into the politics of the Italian Ministry and the Bravieri family, searching for clues on why Antonio Bravieri had dared to challenge Voldemort and paid for it with his life.

~*~

By Friday morning, when Draco had still not returned, she had grimly come to terms with the fact that they would not be going to Edinburgh that night. Narcissa had spent the week distracted, inviting her to tea only to drift off and then jump up, excusing herself. Hermione assumed Italy had taken a turn for the worse, but the Prophet had been completely silent on the situation.

After two anxiety-filled days with no news of Italy or Draco, she had thrown herself back into her research to steer her mind firmly away from his absence. Only that topic was equally frustrating. She'd finished The Mysteries of Magical Asia: Volumes 1, 2, and 3, and found only a handful of irrelevant, throwaway references to magical slavery. She was no closer to finding the inspiration for the tattoos than she had been a month ago.

She was headed to breakfast when she heard voices in the entry hall. She froze at the top of the stairs, listening carefully to catch the mumbled words and ascertain their owners. Peeking over the banister, she found the top of Draco's blond head — a wave of relief through her veins — as well as two others.

Zabini and a dark-haired girl.

Gasping, she moved forward until she could see her face, fingers squeezing the polished wood.

It was the olive-skinned girl from Edinburgh. The one who had been crying through the night, the one who looked too young for all of this. She looked pale and dazed, her large eyes locked on Zabini. Thinner than the last time Hermione had seen her, she practically swam in the heavy black cloak around her shoulders.

Zabini and Draco spoke in hushed tones as Zabini reached into the bag of Floo powder, nodding his head at something Draco said. She watched Zabini turn to the girl and hum something in a cadence she recognized as Italian. They moved to the fireplace, and Blaise righted her when she stumbled in her heels.

"Grazie," she croaked.

Blaise took her elbow, and Hermione caught the faintest glimpse of gold and black letters on her arm as they disappeared through the Floo. Draco stared at the empty fireplace for several long moments after they vanished. Then he crossed the room and started to climb the stairs.

His body moved slowly, exhausted and thin. Purple-blue rings beneath his eyes. He didn't look as wasted as he had a month ago, but he clearly hadn't slept or eaten much. It wasn't until he was steps away from the platform she was on that he finally looked up and paused.

"Granger." He stood tall and took his hand off the railing, removing all weakness from his stance.

She blinked at him, heart thrumming painfully with the weight of the things she wouldn't let herself say. "Who was that?" she finally managed, nodding her head down at the fireplaces below.

His throat bobbed as his eyes took her in. "Giuliana Bravieri. She'll be staying with Blaise from now on."

"Bravieri," she repeated. "She's the Minister's—"

"Niece, yes. Excuse me, but I'm not in the mood for an inquisition right now."

He started to climb again, moving past her as her mind whirred.

"Did you rescue her?" she asked. Her heart thudded dully in her chest, and her lungs held tightly, waiting for his response.

He laughed — a dry, aged sound. "I'd hardly call it that."

A strange hope fluttered in her chest.

She spun, taking a breath to ask —

"Yes, Granger," he said flatly, walking away from her. "We'll go to Edinburgh tonight." And then under his breath, "Bloody woman…"

She watched him trudge to his door, frowning at his retreating back.

Have you had breakfast, she'd been about to ask.

~*~

At eight that evening, she did something for the second time since she'd taken up residence at Malfoy Manor — she examined her vanity dresser. She'd rummaged through it just once before, shortly after she arrived, while looking for weapons.

She pulled out the top drawer, finding basic makeup products and brushes.

Hermione didn't know much about applying powder and goo to her face, but she could remember a bit from fourth year. With Lavender Brown's voice in her mind, she laid out the tubes and gels across her counter and separated them by use. The eye makeup on her right, the lips on her left, and the rouge and powders in the center.

After half a dozen frustrating attempts, she finally was staring at a shadow of what Pansy Parkinson had been able to do to her face. Her eyes were dark, her lashes long. A dusty pink lipstick was all she could find in the drawer. She searched every drawer and cabinet for nail polish, thinking of Pansy's scarlet nails, but couldn't find any. She wasn't positive she could pull off whatever act Pansy had played, but she could come close to it.

As for her hair… Hermione had to leave it alone. She had no tools, no wand, and even if she did have a curling iron, there was no electricity in Malfoy Manor.

Mippy knocked at quarter till ten, handing her the collar, the dress, and the shoes. The elf wrung her hands and stared tremulously at the floor, clearly knowledgeable about the plans for the evening. Perhaps she'd heard Narcissa's rants as well. Hermione took pity on her and quickly dismissed her, asking her to tell Draco that she'd be downstairs momentarily.

The slip dress was black lace with a low neck. It would be tight on her body, leaving very little to the imagination. But perhaps the revelers at Edinburgh Castle no longer needed to imagine her in any way. It was possible they'd seen quite a bit of her body already.

Hermione pressed her lips together, and pushed away those thoughts.

She went to the armoire, reaching into the drawer that held her knickers. She rummaged through them and decided on the pair that looked the most sensual.

The dress slithered down her skin, needing to be tugged around her backside. She slipped the collar on, and the metal shrunk to her skin just as it had last time. She fidgeted with the chilly gold metal as she checked the clock, testing to make sure it hadn't glued itself to her. It seemed to shrink and tighten in response to her touch, attracting to her skin like a magnet. She easily fit her finger between her neck and the collar.

With shoes on and one last look in the mirror, Hermione headed down the hallway to the stairs. The portraits took the opportunity to hiss and call her names as she wobbled by, righting herself on the credenza.

She'd found her footing by the time she descended the stairs, but the sight of Draco watching her from the ground almost sent her stumbling again. His eyes dripped over her face, dress, and legs before tearing away and staring down at the marble.

He looked rested, and despite the way his gaze had lingered, he seemed to have his mask in place. She clicked down the stairs in her heels, awkwardly listening to every step until she reached the bottom.

He didn't immediately lead her out, so she asked, "Is it the same entry every time? Through the main gates?"

After a beat, he nodded at the floor, almost as if snapping out of a trance.

"What do I need to know about last week?" she asked tightly. "What will come up?"

He swallowed and said, "Everything was the same until the Lounge. The Great Hall, the champagne, the dinner."

The images flashed up in front of her eyes again — red lips on his, painted nails running through his hair, Draco's fingers dipping underneath her knickers—

"And the Lounge?" she asked as evenly as possible, shoving the pictures aside. "What do I need to know?"

"You won't be asked to do anything… Anything more." He looked up at her for the first time since she landed at the bottom of the stairs, and his eyes flickered. She caught something almost guilty in them before his mask clicked back into place. "The Lounge will be infinitely tamer tonight."

"Why?"

His jaw tensed. "There was an incident last week."

Her eyebrows shot up as he turned on his heel and headed to the door, as if he could just end the conversation there. She hurried after him, nearly jogging to catch up.

"'Incident?' Does this have to do with Italy?"

He pushed through the Manor doors, and as he swept down the stairs, she could swear she heard him mumble, "Brightest Witch of Her Age."

"Yes," he said. "The Dark Lord has forbidden the use of Flint's potion at Edinburgh. Last week, it was misused on the Italian Minister's niece."

Hermione stumbled down the Manor steps, following behind him on the stone path as her mind worked at breakneck speed.

"Antonio Bravieri didn't support the Dark Lord, did he?" she asked as he moved briskly down the path. "That's why Giuliana was taken and given to a Death Eater. To coerce him into changing his mind." Draco didn't respond, but she didn't need him to. "Bravieri found out what happened to Giuliana at the party, came to rage at the Dark Lord, and was killed for it."

They were steps away from the gate. Draco's pace didn't falter until Hermione reached out and grabbed his arm, spinning him back. He met her with a lazy expression.

Her brows furrowed, trying to work out a piece. "Why did you have to go to Italy? Are you… Have you been promoted?"

He smirked. "As Lucius Malfoy's son, I don't need a promotion. I volunteered, actually."

Her lips parted in shock. "You—"

"For Blaise," he said. "His mother was close friends with Bravieri — a well-known bit of gossip. It was in his best interest to volunteer his assistance with the 'transition.'" He stared off over her shoulder at the Manor. "And it seems to have deflected any suspicion. The Dark Lord gifted Giuliana to him as a token of gratitude for his service."

Hermione's lip curled. "So she'll have to pretend now, too. Only it was real for her. I saw her there. That girl is a child. She isn't strong enough to act like Zabini's plaything—"

"Giuliana won't be attending any time soon," he cut her off. "She's not... in any state for it. Blaise will make her excuses."

The summer wind brushed through them, and Hermione felt it dance across her spine in a shiver.

"What happened to her?"

Draco pressed his lips together. No response.

"Malfoy—"

"Do you really want to ruin your evening before it even begins, Granger?"

"Yes."

He sighed deeply. A hand came up to rub his brow. "Jugson thought it would be a bit of fun to put multiple hairs in her potion. Apparently he was plucking them at random from around the room. Half of the men didn't even realize until… it began."

She blinked up at him. "Oh." Bile crawled up the back of her throat as her imagination flickered through a series of disgusting and depraved images of… multiple people… and— "How old is she?" she croaked.

Draco paused. "Fourteen." His reply wasn't surprising, but it still hit her like a blow to the gut. She swayed her on her feet. He continued, "So Flint's potion is no longer allowed—"

"Was your hair mixed in?" she asked, her voice cracking.

His face turned to her sharply. And the disgust on his features brought her as much relief as the words from his mouth.

"No. We were at dinner when it happened."

His lip curled, and he turned away from her again as she nodded.

"And the Dark Lord was displeased?" she prompted, breathing easier now.

"The involved parties were punished. He reminded his followers of the purpose of these revels. Not just a place to amuse ourselves. A place to serve him and his ambitions."

Something was familiar about his wording, and it was only a moment before Hermione realized that they were Narcissa's words.

A smirk curved her lips. It seemed that Narcissa Malfoy had pulled not only her husband's strings, but the Dark Lord's as well.

He held out a hand for her arm, and she gave it to him. His hand was warm over her tattoo as they moved through the gate. They walked to the hill where they could Apparate from, and she felt relief thrumming through her veins that he'd made it through the last week unscathed. "Your mother was worried about you in Italy. Was it dangerous?"

He looked around them, almost like searching for enemies in the wind, and said, "The Italian Magical community knows exactly what happened to Bravieri, despite Skeeter's attempt to spin it differently. It wasn't a walk in the park."

He took her elbow and spun them to the signpost outside of Edinburgh Castle. She allowed the long walk up to the gates to center her mind, the breeze to cool her emotions, and the sound of her footsteps to confirm that it was truly happening again.

The werewolves howled, the guards smacked their lips, and the crowd of Death Eaters in the courtyard whistled. She ignored them all, hardly registering their jeers about her bare legs as she focused on a lake with still waters.

Draco was putting on a show of being quite relaxed. During their first walk into Edinburgh, he was rushed and anxious. This time, he was shouting back at the crowd with a laugh, stopping to chat with someone at the top of the stairs, and teasing someone who was coughing on their cigar. But when the spectators vanished and it was only the two of them, she watched his face fall, an empty expression in his eyes.

He led her through the doors to the Great Hall, and Hermione's breath caught to see Charlotte turning to them with a tray of champagne.

"Master Malfoy," she said with a flirty grin. "Good evening. And Miss Granger."

Charlotte's eyes met hers briefly before offering her champagne. Hermione reached for her own glass this time, hoping to draw Charlotte's eyes, but she was already reaching for the curtain and letting them into the Great Hall.

The music and the chatter hit her like a wall, stirring her memories of two weeks ago. She was flooded with terror for a freezing moment before feeling Draco's hand on her back, warm and steadying.

He stopped to talk with people as they sipped their champagne. Hermione tried to catalog the guests and conversations more fastidiously this time. Two weeks ago, she was far more focused on the girls. This time she needed to listen to the whispered jokes and unspoken clues.

Draco greeted Rabastan Lestrange while he was mid-conversation, a quick tap on his shoulder and a few polite words while Lestrange's eyes wandered down Hermione's waist and hips. He led her to a quick conversation with Mulciber, who did not have Cho hanging off of his elbow — Hermione's eyes scanned for her as inconspicuously as possible, but with no luck. She and Draco passed a pale-faced Jugson with a nod, and she noticed that he was missing a hand.

"Draco," a slimy voice called out behind them, Hermione felt a nauseous dread sliding through her veins. They turned and found Nott Sr. approaching with Theo at his side. "I didn't expect you back so soon."

"Sir." Draco shook Nott's hand and gave Theo a careless nod. "We were able to resolve the situation quickly. Yaxley is staying for another week, and Dolohov joined him as we were leaving."

"Good," Nott Sr. said. And though she was staring at the floor, she could feel his eyes slither down her body.

"Hello, little dove." The handle of his cane pushed under her chin until her face tilted back. She felt Draco's thumb twitch against her back. "I missed your little show last week. Perhaps you'll grace us with a repeat performance tonight."

Her blood froze, sound rushing in her ears. A snort from Theo as Draco's hand pressed harder into her skin. "Not likely, Father. I'm sure Draco is going to hoard her talents for at least another year or two."

"Is that so? How unfortunate." He tsked. "You know Draco, forbidding the fruit only makes it more tempting."

Hermione kept her gaze steady on Nott's, holding her breath. His cane slipped down her neck, between her clavicles, and landed between her breasts.

"Such a pretty dress," he crooned. And even with Draco standing so close, with his hand tightening on her waist, Nott Sr. stepped even closer, long fingers sliding low over her hip. She felt every muscle tighten. "It just begs to be peeled off."

"Unfortunately, Ted," Draco's voice was smooth in her ear, like a warm breeze. "I'll be the one doing the peeling."

Draco's fingers curled tightly on the curve of her waist, unsteadying her until she had to step back. She found her breath, and Draco quickly excused them, taking Theo with them.

Her talents. She imagined the other Hermione shifting sensuously on Draco's lap, unbuckling his belt and unzipping his trousers while his hand wandered up her dress—

She breathed deep and centered her mind, ignoring the anger and disgust bubbling beneath her skin. Instead she let her eyes flit across the room, searching for Cho.

"Father's right, you know," Theo said as the three of them headed through the passage to the other building. "You're only making things worse. I heard that men in the other room have been talking about her—"

"And where's your whore tonight, Theo?" Draco drawled, leading them up the winding stairs without a look backward. "Waiting for you on his knees in the men's room?"

Hermione's eyes widened, and she heard Theo miss a step behind her. He was sputtering and scrambling for a reply when Draco reached the landing, grabbing her elbow to guide her for the last two steps and ignoring their companion.

Harper stood at the door again, and with him was the strawberry-blonde girl from two weeks ago. Harper stood up straight, and the girl batted her lashes demurely at them as they arrived.

Theo's protests died on his lips as the girl skipped to his side and pressed a kiss to his cheek. His cheeks were bright red, and his jaw clenched as he slipped his arm around her back.

Harper did his security tests on their rings and collars, and then they were headed into the snake pit. Boisterous laughter and shouting assaulted her ears, and when the door swung open, the room cheered, greeting Draco and Theo. Montague started a chant of "Fratelli d'Italia!" and the boys shook Draco's hand with mocking greetings of "Buongiorno!" and "Ciao bello!"

Draco took it all in stride, shoving them off and joining their chanting with an energy she knew was put upon. One look back at Theo showed a sour expression on his face as Draco took the praise and adulation. She caught the eye of the girl on Theo's arm, and she winked at her.

Hermione blinked, and turned around. Draco herded her to the head of the table, and Hermione took her position behind Draco's chair. She found Susan behind Goyle, Mortensen behind Pucey, and Penelope behind Flint. A few new Carrow Girls behind the others. And as the strawberry-blonde took her place behind Theo as he sat, Hermione realized the chair to Draco's left was empty.

Blaise wasn't here. She was thankful that meant Giuliana was somewhere else as well.

As soon as the boys were seated, the girls stepped forward for the wine bottles. Hermione followed, reaching beyond Draco's shoulder and pouring wine into his glass.

They repeated their toast — "To the Dark Lord's power. May he reign forevermore" — and Hermione watched as eleven boys drank deeply to his honor. There was less food on the table than two weeks ago. No opulent pig roast or decadent side dishes. As the boys settled back into conversation, the strawberry-blonde and two other girls started moving around with trays, serving light hors d'oeuvres and cheese.

Without dinner in the way, it didn't take long for the first girl to drop into a lap — a giggly waif in a silver collar who draped herself over Terrence Higgs without a fuss. As if he'd been waiting for the cue all evening, Goyle directed Susan to his lap, his arms wrapping around her stomach and his face inhaling deeply at her neck as she grimaced.

Hermione was listening to the conversations and watching the boys closely, so she saw the exact moment Flint pulled a small box out of his robes.

"What do we say, gentlemen," he called out over the noise. "Shall we lose some Galleons tonight?"

The boys laughed and jeered, ribbing one another about who had won and lost last time. Flint's long fingers opened the box and plucked out a deck of cards and three dice. He began shuffling the deck as some boys groaned about the holes in the pockets, and others rubbed their greedy hands together in glee.

Hermione had seen the Weasleys play this game at the Burrow before (usually only betting Knuts). Her rudimentary understanding was that it was similar to Muggle poker. Ron had tried to teach her in sixth year, but had gotten frustrated with her questions and gave up after only twenty minutes.

She felt a shard of ice in her chest at the memory. She'd buried Ron in a book next to Ginny weeks ago.

Pucey started divvying the chips, and the cards slid across the table with a magical push as Flint dealt them. She looked up and realized that over half of the girls were otherwise occupied. Some sat in laps or draped over the shoulders of their "dates." The other half refilled glasses and offered snacks. Only Hermione was left standing at attention.

She stepped forward as Draco plucked up his cards. Grabbing the decanter of wine, she refilled his almost full glass to look busy, and as he rearranged his cards, she brushed her fingers over his collar. "Do you have a good hand?" she murmured, doing her best to imitate Pansy's purr.

His jaw tightened for a split second. "Excellent," he said, with a confident flick of his eyes to meet Flint's.

Flint smirked, then turned his gaze on her. "How are those heels tonight, Granger?" His gaze ran over her. "If you need to sit, you know my lap's always free."

Before she could craft a response, Draco's hand was on her hip, pulling her downward without even looking up from his cards. The boys laughed.

She landed across both his legs, the right side of her chest pressing against his left. With how short and tight the dress was, she was forced to shift herself until her legs crossed, her arm slung behind Draco's shoulder. Draco provided no assistance.

Pucey started by rolling the dice, grinning down at the result. The glyphs on the sides were different than the ones she'd seen the Weasleys play with, so she gave up trying to summon the little she remembered. After the first hand was swept away, Flint called for wagers.

"Let's make it good this time, gentlemen." He nodded at Montague. "You first."

"I have the names of two defectors at the Ministry."

Flint rolled his eyes. "That's terribly dull, Graham."

"Well, that's what I have," Montague grumbled.

"Then think of something better. I'm not risking what I know for something my grandmother could have told me."

He turned his eyes on Pucey, who cleared his throat. "I have news on France."

"I'll take that," Flint said. "I'll raise you a sighting of Johnson."

Hermione's mouth felt dry, and she resisted the urge to lean forward. They were wagering secrets — sensitive topics about the war. The outside world.

She chanced a look around the table and found the strawberry-blonde meeting eyes with another Carrow Girl before quickly glancing away, reaching for a slice of cheese off Theo's plate.

"Intriguing, Flint. Who's your source?"

"Well, you'll have to beat my hand to find out, won't you Cass?"

"Goyle?" Montague asked. "Are you in? Anything new on your father?"

But Goyle was nuzzling into Susan's neck, content to fold.

"I have news on Dung. Spotted outside Edinburgh tonight," Derrick said.

"That old pikey. What's he selling now?"

"You'll just have to beat my hand to find out."

"Draco?" Flint asked. "Are you in?"

Hermione felt every pair of eyes turn on them. She glanced down to Draco's hand, unable to tell if what he had was sufficient to win. He plucked a card from the middle and replaced it on the end.

"I'm in." He tilted his head, and Hermione felt his hair tickle her neck. "Anyone interested to know who it was that skipped through the boundary at Dover last month?"

A charge pulsed through the table. Flint lifted a brow; Pucey leaned closer. Warrington set down his glass with a clink. Theo, on the other hand, stiffened.

"That's classified," he hissed from their left. "You can't give away that kind of information."

"I'm not giving it away," Draco drawled. "I'm planning to win my hand, thank you very much." He took a leisurely sip from his wine glass. "And you, Theo? Do you have anything of value?"

Theo sat up straight in his chair, jostling the arms of the strawberry-blonde hanging off of his shoulders. "I can tell you which major government official plans to pay Edinburgh a visit next month," he snarled.

"Cirillo already said she'd be back—"

"No," Theo snapped. He sneered at the interruption. "Not Cirillo."

A pause as the boys considered.

"Well, you have my interest," Flint said with a grin. "Shall we play, boys?"

Flint whispered into Penelope's ear, and with some reluctance, Penelope leaned forward and blew on the dice before Flint tossed them.

Hermione watched cards exchange hands — watched the dice roll — watched the quick shuffling as the boys laughed and drank. She still couldn't figure out how the game was played, but she was far more invested in the conversation. One by one, the boys lost, spilling their secrets, and afterward, their gold. By the time they were down to their last few wine bottles, only Draco, Flint, and Theo had kept their secrets.

She'd learned that Mundungus Fletcher had been spotted outside the Edinburgh gates attempting to sell a Time-Turner. He'd been stripped of all his possessions, tortured for a few hours, and set free.

Pucey's news on France — that the Dark Lord had lost several new recruits during a battle near Normandy — had helped Hermione puzzle together two things. First, France was publicly against the Great Order — something she'd suspected, but hadn't confirmed until now. Second, the Dark Lord was enraged about it enough to go on the offensive — something uncommon for him. She wondered why France mattered to him.

Another two hands, and she found out more. The name of a suspected traitor in Cirillo's cabinet. How Jugson was missing more than a hand.

Flint finally lost his secret to a round of jeers, revealing that Angelina was spotted in Bristol at a closed-down Apothecary. Hermione's mind conjured millions of possibilities, but in the end, she knew that she shouldn't read too much into it. After all, while she had been on the run, she'd needed Dittany and Murtlap Essence more than anything else.

Theo didn't seem terribly put out when he folded, smugly announcing that Edinburgh would be hosting the Undersecretary to the Korean Minister.

Draco didn't lose, keeping his secret of who had escaped at Dover for another round. Hermione shoved aside her irritation that he hadn't told her before. She'd take it up with him later, but now was not the time.

By the end of the next, Pucey, having lost his gold and secrets several rounds before, began kissing Mortensen's neck as he listened to the game, only piping in every now and then. Goyle was doing something similar, only it seemed he had completely disregarded the game to focus on sloppily kissing Susan's mouth.

It was Warrington's turn to throw the dice. The Carrow Girl in his lap giggled when he offered her the dice to blow on, and he caught her lips with his as the dice tumbled across the table.

Hermione looked away from the scene as Theo called out the results of the roll. They played their first hand, exchanging chips and cards. And when it was time to bet their information, Theo offered another visitor to Edinburgh in the next month.

"Don't waste our time with that," Draco drawled. "I want to know what your father was researching in my library." Theo opened his mouth. "And don't feed me any bollocks about the Apparition Line," Draco continued, cutting over him. "I saw him lurking in the other sections."

A stillness swept over the table. Theo's face flushed at being put on the spot, and clearly not in a way he enjoyed.

"I'll take that bet," Flint said with a glint in his eye. "Especially since Theodore is panicking."

The table chuckled. The strawberry-blonde cooed into Theo's ear and rubbed his shoulders as he scowled. Hermione felt her pulse spike, feeding off the intrigue, and she quickly looked down at the table to hide her eagerness.

Theo scowled, drumming his fingers on the table. "Well, I'm only in if Draco tells us where Daddy Malfoy has been."

Draco's ribs expanded against hers, and she saw the corner of his mouth lift. He made quite a show of looking down at his cards, weighing the options.

"What do you think, Granger?" he lilted. "Think my cards are good enough?"

She blinked at his hand, not sure how to answer, but knowing it didn't matter — he was only buying time. She thought of the other girls' hands trailing through the boys' hair or sliding down collar bones — the ways in which it was typical to flirt and touch and tease.

Hermione plucked a card from the middle of Draco's hand and replaced it on the end. She leaned closer, and loudly whispered, "I think Theo's about to spill all his secrets."

The boys burst into laughter — more raucous than the quip warranted. It wasn't terribly witty, but perhaps they were amused that it was said by her. That she was playing their game.

"Now the game can start!" Flint yelled over the din. "I wondered when you'd show up, Granger!"

"About time. Not nearly as cozy as they were last week—"

"Finally warming up over there—"

"—back to that swotty posture again, probably aching for a shag with Malfoy gone the last week—"

Hermione let the words wash over her, straining a tight-lipped smile down at Draco's cards. Pansy had been doing something different. Something cozier. And they'd noticed the difference.

She tried to relax back into Draco's arm and shoulder, tilting her body towards him. He was still as stone again, no help at all. Fighting back her irritation, she wiggled closer, trying to get as cozy as Pansy might have been — only to be stopped by his hand squeezing her leg in warning. As they tossed cards back and forth, she allowed the arm resting on the back of his chair to drape across his shoulders.

She tried not to feel stung, knowing he hadn't been this cold with Pansy last week. Perhaps she simply needed to try harder. Let him know that she was comfortable.

Theo won his hand, allowed to keep his secrets for a bit longer. Draco spread his cards on the table, and Hermione inferred that he had won as well.

She felt her heart pounding in her chest as she decided to try something else — celebrating his win. Pressing her forehead to his temple, and painting on a coy smile, Hermione tilted her face up, reaching for his mouth with hers.

The barest brush of her bottom lip across the corner of his mouth—

And Draco jerked his face back, the smallest movement of his neck, like he'd dodged the swing of a sword.

She froze, feeling his entire body seize up, his ribs no longer moving against hers.

Embarrassment flooded her chest and neck, working its way to her cheeks. She'd tried to kiss him, and he'd rejected her. She didn't dare look at him, staring at her lap as her face burned. He continued shuffling his new hand as if nothing had happened.

Soon enough, her embarrassment gave way to a boiling fury. He was going to jeopardize them. He couldn't accept a kiss from his Lot? What did that say?

Had anyone seen?

The sound in the room returned to her slowly as she lifted her head. The boys were chatting and passing cards. No eyes were on them, but there was something malicious about the way Marcus Flint grinned at the table, his fancy teeth cutting into his lip.

She felt Draco's ribs moving again, and heard him swallow. Hermione stiffened at the reminder that he was there.

They needed to talk. They needed a discussion about what their behavior was to consist of. He'd snarled at her last week, condescended at her ability to play-act, and then proceeded to sabotage her once she'd actually tried to play the game. She breathed deep, reminding herself that she couldn't show how she felt with so many watchful eyes in the room.

"Your roll, Malfoy."

Higgs slid the dice over to Draco, and she felt his arm extend to reach for them.

"You gonna let her wish you luck?" Pucey teased.

She'd seen almost every girl blow on the dice before they were thrown. A flirty smile and pursed lips before their heads bowed. And while she wished for nothing more than the freedom to refuse another opportunity to be humiliated, she knew she had to put on a show.

Draco held the dice in front of her. She laid delicate fingers on his wrist, holding him in place, and looked up to his eyes as she blew cool air across his fingertips.

He swallowed. And his eyes flashed.

A chuckle from across the table. "We all know how much Granger loves to 'blow.'"

She blinked, the spell broken the moment the words registered. She released his wrist, and he turned away as the cackling of hyenas ricocheted off the walls.

"Too bad, she really does need that potion to loosen up—"

Pansy had performed oral sex while in her body.

"I'd give you an 'E,' Granger. Maybe an 'O,' but you'd have to let me judge firsthand—"

It had been her mouth, her tongue.

Her throat was dry as Draco brushed them off with a forced smile and tossed the dice. She sat ramrod straight in his lap while the round was played, pushing away the images until her heart stopped pounding in her ears and her breathing steadied.

Hermione had never… she didn't know how. She could only assume that Pansy Parkinson knew what she was doing, but hopefully she didn't make Hermione out to be some kind of expert.

She shook off these questions. Draco had told her that things would be much calmer — that he and Pansy had played their parts convincingly. She had to focus on the game and the secrets. She could deal with him later.

But a stray thought snuck through as the boys threw in their Galleons. What did Draco see when he looked at her now? Did he picture her on her knees, unbuckling him? His eyes had been on her mouth last Friday night, after Pansy left through the Floo. Was he remembering it?

A hand pressed lightly between her shoulder blades. Her skin jumped, and she realized she was tense as a board and angrily staring off into space.

She breathed deep, pushing away these worrisome thoughts and refocusing. The boys were just offering their secrets as she relaxed back into Draco's hand.

"I have something that has potential — now that we're in the final round," Flint said with a smirk. His eyes locked on hers as he said, "I happen to know the fate of one Ronald Weasley."

A cold wave of dread crashed through her. And she knew she hadn't been able to temper her expression. Flint's eyes gleamed. She felt the hand on her back tense as well.

"And how would you know that?" Theo sneered. "No one's heard of him for months."

Flint shrugged, still smirking. "My potion is no longer available at Edinburgh. I have to make house calls these days. You wouldn't believe the things I've learned in exchange for a small discount."

Hermione's heart thrummed. It sounded like Ron was alive. And Flint knew where he was being kept.

"But it is a huge secret, you know," Flint said with a pout. "I feel like we should up the ante if I'm going to reveal this."

Flint looked directly at Draco. Draco responded in a level voice, "I can reveal no more than the country my father is in, I'm afraid."

"I don't care to know that. Truly." Flint shrugged, his eyes falling on Hermione again. She had the sinking sensation that he was playing with them, like a cat batting a mouse. "But I will wager that secret against a kiss from the Golden Girl."

Hermione held her breath. She heard Draco's jaw click, and the weight in her stomach dropped. He would decline. And then she would have no idea what had happened to Ron.

Her lips parted before Draco could take a breath. "One measly kiss?" She lifted a brow imitating the boy beneath her and said, "That's an easy bet to take. Hardly fair for you, though."

Flint winked at her. "You sell yourself short, Granger. Perhaps that's just how madly I desire you."

Draco tensed, about to jump in, about to end this.

"How could my master refuse?" she quickly replied. "It costs him nothing if he loses."

The hand on her back lifted, and she heard the arm of the chair creak under the strain of a hand squeezing it.

The boys were silent, watching the unspoken tennis match between the two heads of the table. But the match was won, and Draco knew it. She could feel the anger radiating off of him even as he said, "Of course. An excellent wager."

All eyes turned to the cards as Draco and Flint played, pulling new hands and rolling the dice. She judged Draco's success off of Theo, who had no poker face. The more disappointed he looked, the better Draco was doing.

When they both finally laid out their cards, the entire table released a breath. Hermione waited.

"Fuck," Montague whispered, running a hand through his hair.

"It's a draw, sweetheart," Flint said to her from across the table, his lips twisted in an arrogant smile. "Such a shame. I would have liked to have tasted you just once." He made a show of licking his lips at her as the boys laughed and Draco stoically cleaned up his cards. Flint leaned closer, schooling his features in a mock pout. "And I'm sure you desperately wanted to know about your Weasley. Such a pity."

Flint tapped his chin, as if deep in thought.

"I'll tell you what," he said, shifting Penelope off his lap. "I'll still reveal my secret if you give me that kiss. Good and proper, now."

She felt her pulse in her fingertips. Then Draco scoffed and plucked up his wine glass, draining the contents and preparing to excuse them from the room.

She thought of warm blue eyes crinkling at her. A booming laugh, freckled skin, and the smell of fresh grass. She had barely seconds. But she had to know.

Hermione stood swiftly. The room was still. They watched her as she moved to Flint, who was smirking at her with hungry eyes. She didn't spare a glance at Draco as she sat in Flint's lap, draped across his knees, and pulled his neck down to kiss him squarely on the mouth.

She heard the table erupt in cheers and groans. She felt Flint smile against her lips before returning her kiss with a vengeance, his mouth cold and rubbery against hers. She was just pulling back when his hand slipped into her hair, and his other dropped to her thigh, rubbing the skin. His lips moved under hers, his hand gripping her curls to hold her still, and then his tongue was against her mouth, pressing forward to get inside.

He'd barely managed it when she pushed back with all her might, breaking free of him and stumbling to her feet. The sound rushed back to the room as Flint grinned up at her, his thumb brushing over his lips. The boys pounded the table and howled.

"Your secret, Flint?" Hermione yelled over the din, staring down at him, resisting the urge to wipe her mouth.

Flint raised his hand to quiet the room, his new teeth shining proudly. "Your Weasley is alive, Granger. I saw him beaten and bloody at the Lestrange Estate last week, but he was still moaning when they kicked him."

She felt the blood drain from her face. There was noise somewhere in the room, but she couldn't decipher the sounds.

Ron was alive, but barely. The Lestrange Estate. Which one? Rabastan's or Rodolphus and Bellatrix's?

She tried to find the voice to ask, but her wrist was taken, an arm around her back, and then Draco was leading her out of the room. Pushing her, really. The game was over. Several others followed them out, passing Harper, moving down the stairwell.

Draco was silent. His hand on her hip was rigid as he guided her through the door, but she couldn't spare his temper a passing thought. Her mind was spinning with all the information she'd learned and the images her imagination conjured of Ron hanging on by a thread, bleeding on some manor floor. She walked the corridor in a daze, shoving her memories of Ron back into a closed book on the shelf, where he belonged.

Her mind tingled afterward, worn from the effort. She needed air. She needed space. Her lips still felt strange and dry from Flint's, and her dress felt too tight.

Draco steered her around another corner, and the sight of Charlotte waiting with a tray of drinks snapped Hermione out of her exhaustion. She was going into the Lounge. She was going into the Lounge, and she needed her wits about her. She turned to Draco and said, "I need to use the loo."

He glanced down at her sharply.

"I am allowed to relieve myself, yes?" she deadpanned.

He glared at her and tugged her to the left, around the booths full of laughing men and painted girls, towards a hallway on the left.

"There are guards inside," Draco said, his voice clipped. He pointed towards a ladies' room at the end of the hall. "Be quick about it."

Hermione paused, regretting making the request if she wouldn't have the proper space to be alone. Then she nodded and walked away without sparing him a second glance. She pushed open the door, finding an old tiled room with three stall doors for tourists visiting Edinburgh. A male guard stood near the sinks, his eyes roving over her with interest.

Hermione blushed, embarrassed at the thought of using the toilet with an audience. She hesitated in the doorway for half a second, and suddenly the door hit her as another person tried to enter. She moved aside, turning to apologize—

The strawberry-blonde smiled back at her.

Hermione blinked at her as she passed. She swallowed and hurried to a stall, feeling the attention of the guard still on her. She used the facilities quickly — the strawberry-blonde taking the cubicle next to hers — and once she was finished and washing her hands, a toilet flushed, and the girl was exiting, joining her at the sinks.

They grabbed for a towel at the same time, and when Hermione turned to apologize, she saw the strawberry-blonde's eyes flick to the guard. "Your collar is askew," she said, in a thick Scottish accent.

The guard was staring at them in the mirror as the strawberry-blonde stepped forward, into Hermione's space. She cocked her head as she reached up and began tugging at Hermione's collar.

"Oh, thank you," said Hermione, her voice thin.

"You're not supposed to talk to her," the guard barked. Hermione jumped, and the Scottish girl's hands dropped quickly.

With a sway of her hips, the girl turned and smiled at him over her shoulder. "Mmm. We don't have to talk, I suppose."

And with a wink, the Scottish girl stepped forward, cupped her hands on Hermione's face, and pressed her lips to Hermione's.

Hermione's brows shot up, eyes wide open. The girl's mouth moved over hers, her hands sliding around Hermione's neck as she pressed their bodies together.

Hermione couldn't move — couldn't think. This was… What was this?

The girl brushed her fingers around Hermione's neck and let her tongue slide out, tasting Hermione's lips. She felt stiff and useless as the girl tugged at her collar—

Her collar.

Hermione gasped into the girl's mouth, granting her tongue entrance. The girl was doing something to her collar. She could see the guard shifting out of the corner of her eye, starting to come closer to them. She felt her pulse spike, gaze darting to the door.

The girl pulled back and turned to the guard. "No, no. Ya can't touch."

The guard leered at them with a mouth full of crooked teeth, and the Scottish girl giggled before taking her hand and pulling Hermione through the door behind her. Before she could catch her breath, she was pushed against the wall outside the restrooms — hands on her neck again, soft lips against hers.

Hermione gasped as she felt the girl tug at her collar again. Was she pulling it off? Wasn't Hermione able to take it off herself?

The girl pulled back, letting the collar rest on her neck again, the metal stretching snug against her skin. Planting one last slow, deliberate kiss on Hermione's lips, the girl winked and waltzed down the corridor...

...passing Draco.

He stood still as stone, his eyes tracking the strawberry-blonde girl as she passed. His lips were parted in a strange way, as if he'd been about to speak and abruptly stopped.

Hermione pressed her fingers to her lips, trying to make sense of the last two minutes. She'd followed her in the restroom. She'd clearly wanted something. Did she get it?

"The fuck was that?"

Her eyes snapped up to find Draco scowling at her, apparently recovered.

Hermione opened her mouth. Then closed it. "She was… very friendly," she finally landed on.

As she moved to join him in the main room, he grabbed her elbow and spun them around. "Any other friends you'd like to make tonight, Granger?" he sneered.

And instead of leading to the couches in the Lounge, he dragged her straight to the fireplaces, calling out for Malfoy Manor and sweeping them back home.

Once they were in the entry hall, he dropped her arm and stomped toward the stairs. Hermione blinked after him for a moment before her anger found her.

"Why did we leave?" she demanded. "We weren't finished!"

"I think you had enough fun for one night," he hissed, starting to climb.

Her mouth fell open at his retreating back. "You're angry that I kissed Flint? You think that was fun for me?"

He spun back, several stairs higher than her. "I'm angry that you made me look weak."

She gaped at him. "Are you joking? Flint only made that bet because you refused to kiss me! You made us both look like idiots!"

His jaw snapped shut. Starting to ascend again, he bit out, "Kissing is too intimate."

Her temper boiled, bubbling over. Storming after him up the steps, she hissed, "Too intimate? Everyone else was kissing! I'm sure you kissed Pansy last week, so don't even—"

"I didn't," he spat back, half a staircase above her. "Stop talking out of your arse, Granger—"

"Oh, but you let her mouth on other places?" she shouted over him. "My mouth?!" Her voice echoed in the hall. She reached the second-floor landing just as he started up the stairs to the third floor.

"So tonight was revenge, then?" He laughed humorlessly. "You're going to go around snogging as many people as possible to get back at me?"

"Don't flatter yourself," Hermione snapped. "The girl in the bathroom was—" She didn't know if she should mention the way she'd fiddled with her collar. "Strange," she finished, "but Flint was a calculated move. He had information about Ron—"

"Oh yes," he snarled, spinning back to her, his face pink. "Ron." He dropped two steps, meeting her in the middle of the staircase. "I do wonder what your boyfriend would have to say about your method of information gathering, Granger."

She glowered at him, craning her neck up to meet his eyes. "My boy— my boyfriend?"

"Yes," he hissed. "What if your precious Weasley knew that you dropped into any lap offering the smallest crumb of information—"

"You — utter arse!" she exploded. "I wouldn't have to kiss your disgusting friends if you would just tell me what the fuck is going on!"

His jaw clenched, and he spun around to storm up the rest of the staircase.

"I answer every bloody question you ask me, Granger—"

"Merlin forbid you offer anything else!" She sprinted after him in her heels. "Like any kind of game plan for these evenings. Or having the decency to tell me about your stupid No Kissing Rule!"

She followed around the corner as he made for his bedroom door, huffing and stomping in his wake.

"You want a rule, Granger?" he yelled down the hallway, shoving open his bedroom door. "Don't throw yourself at my friends!"

"Fuck off, Malfoy!"

He glared at her and disappeared into his room, slamming the door behind him. She followed suit, marching into her bedroom, fuming with the fire in her blood.

She ripped off her heels, chucking them at the wall connecting their rooms, hoping he heard. Reaching up for the collar, her fingers pried open the clasp, and the metal fell away onto the floor —

A thin scrap of paper fluttering down with it.

Hermione stared at it, her entire body frozen at the sight.

A piece of parchment, torn off the edge of something, no wider than her little finger.

She bent down slowly, thinking of the way the girl with strawberry-blonde hair had squeezed underneath her metal collar. To slide a thin slice of paper beneath the gold.

Her shaking fingers reached for the scrap, turning it over. Her breath hitched.

A familiar handwriting from days at the Burrow spent giggling, notes passed back and forth about Harry and Ron and kisses and wishes. A hasty scribble in red lipstick that sent Hermione's mind reeling, her heart beating out of its cage.

How do I kill him? — GW

Ginny.

Hermione stared down at the piece of paper between her fingertips.

Her bookshelves shuddered as a heavy tome pushed forward, opening to flashes of scarlet hair and mischievous eyes. Ginny was alive, and waiting for her help…

How do I kill him? — GW

Her handwriting. Her words. Her fire.

Hermione screwed her eyes shut. Either the strawberry-blonde girl knew Ginny, or someone with access to both girls had served as the go-between.

She took a shaky breath, stilling her trembling shelves. The note didn't seem like a ruse. Polyjuice Potion wouldn't allow someone to replicate Ginny's handwriting, and the note did fit with her theories about Cho and Charlotte. Girls were quietly revolting against the Great Order, using notes at the Lot parties to communicate. But Ginny had been locked away for over a month now.

A weight dropped in Hermione's stomach. How long had Ginny been waiting for her response? Weeks? Or were there other methods of communication that she wasn't aware of?

Hermione examined the paper over and over, looking for anything else important, and then tossed it into the fire. She watched the parchment crackle and curl.

How do I kill him?

Ginny Weasley had direct access to Voldemort. "The Dark Lord's pet," Cirillo had called her. She was close enough that she believed she could kill him.

Hermione paced her room, thinking of how to answer. The problem was that killing Voldemort wasn't even half of the battle.

Nagini.

Nagini had to be first. If Voldemort died before Nagini, it wouldn't be good enough. The night the Killing Curse had rebounded, when he first tried to kill Harry, he hadn't died because his Horcruxes kept him alive.

As the final Horcrux, the snake had to go first. And there were only three ways to kill her. Fiendfyre, basilisk venom, or the Sword of Gryffindor.

There were only two people alive that knew about the snake — her and Ron. Ginny could be the third. Dumbledore had allowed three people to know after his death.

How long had the strawberry-blonde girl been holding onto Ginny's note, waiting for her moment with Hermione?

Hermione stopped her pacing, bracing herself on the fireplace mantle. Who was she? Who was the strawberry-blonde? She didn't recognize her, but that wasn't necessarily a cause for concern. Lots had been taken from multiple countries throughout Europe — some were even Muggles. And being magic suppressed and under the Carrows' watch made it extremely unlikely that any of the girls would have access to a bottomless supply of Polyjuice Potion.

She thought back to Charlotte. Cho. The girls taking hands under the table with glass in their knees. There was a system in place — a network. And the strawberry-blonde was just a cog in the machine.

If they were going to survive this together, Hermione would have to trust her.

She raced to her desk drawers, taking out spare parchment. She ripped pieces and tested their size under the collar until she had a pile to work with. After a few tries, with a sharp quill point, she figured out how to get the maximum number of words on the scrap. But as she looked down at her small print drying on the parchment with concise words, she realized the implications of her words.

Fiendfyre, basilisk venom, Gryff sword. Nagini first.

If they were caught… she was handing over the keys to it all. Not even Dumbledore had written it down.

Few people knew what Horcruxes were, but a catalog search of those terms would lead them straight to the subject. The point of keeping them a forbidden topic was to discourage the power-hungry from weaponizing them. If the information fell into the wrong hands...

Could she trust that the information would get to the right people without being discovered? How direct was the strawberry blonde's access to Ginny? How many hands would carry this information?

And a dark thought as Hermione stared out her windows to the moonlit grounds — Would it matter? Could Ginny accomplish it on her own?

How could Ginny summon Fiendfyre, or find basilisk venom? Would the Sword of Gryffindor appear to her at the exact right moment?

Hermione shook her head, banishing her concerns away. However impossible her circumstances may have seemed, Ginny was resourceful. Clever. Hermione had to trust her; had to get her the information she'd asked for. But she'd have to find another way. A note was too risky.

For now, the most helpful information Hermione could pass on was that Voldemort may be the King, but Nagini was the Queen. Take the Queen first.

Ginny couldn't focus on Voldemort. She had to get close to Nagini. And Hermione would have to find a way to pass the rest of the information without a note.

The image of Voldemort's face after invading her mind swam up. The look of uncertain, complicated thought once he'd confirmed that Harry had been an unintentional Horcrux. Hermione bit her lip, praying he hadn't created another. His soul was already unstable — hopefully he wasn't unwise enough to split it further.

It was four in the morning by the time Hermione settled on two words, clear and crisp in the quill's ink. A hint, and a warning. A thought that neither Ginny nor George nor any other living person besides Ron would think of.

Snake first.

~*~

She slept till one in the afternoon, letting the emotional whiplash of the previous evening run its course through her. The full weight of her problems seemed to return to her as she lay in bed, blinking at the ceiling. She grimaced and threw the covers off herself.

She'd decided on how to respond to Ginny's note, but as she poured her coffee from the carafe that had appeared on her nightstand, she knew she had a more immediate problem. It was critical for her to maintain consistent appearances at Edinburgh, making herself available for any form of communication. And to do that, she and Draco needed to cooperate better. Their row last night had cut the evening short — something she couldn't afford in the future.

Hermione took a long sip of coffee, considering. Three things had seemed to anger him last night. Kissing Flint, trying to play the part in the dining room, and letting the strawberry-blonde get close to her. Hermione supposed she could see his perspective about Flint, but she'd do it again in a heartbeat. Surely he had to understand why.

The rest of his anger made no sense.

She closed her eyes, fighting back her irritation at the impossible riddle that was Draco Malfoy. Perhaps understanding the root cause of his anger wasn't as important as making sure it wouldn't happen again. She needed to know what she could and couldn't do. Or else he might revert back to taking Pansy in her body.

Hermione frowned into her coffee cup.

That couldn't happen. It was her body — only she had the right to be in it. And the girls were counting on her to be there, petty squabbles aside. She needed to make amends with him.

Even though he was in the wrong.

Scowling, she drained the rest of her coffee mug and went to her bath to wash up.

~*~

After collecting her thoughts, she searched the Manor for him. She found him in his study on the first floor, the door slightly cracked. There was no response after a few knocks, so she pushed the door open with her fingertips, holding her breath as it swung backward. He was bent over his desk, sealing an envelope with the Malfoy wax seal with an impassive expression on his face. She stood in the doorway and waited for him to acknowledge her.

He finally glanced up at her, glaring before his eyes raked over her jeans and trainers. He always hated when she wore jeans, she'd noticed.

She swallowed and lifted her chin. "Can we have a discussion?"

"By all means, Granger." His tone was acerbic as he stood, replacing the seal and the wax in his desk drawer.

She felt the anger that only he stirred in her start to boil before she refocused.

Staying put in the doorway, almost blocking his exit, she said, "I'd like to talk about the fact that we haven't had a successful evening at Edinburgh yet."

His eyes flickered up to her. "Successful." She nodded, and the corner of his mouth twitched. "And what would that look like, Granger?"

"You tell me," she said quietly. "I've been twice, and both times I've felt like I'm drowning."

A flash of something in his face — guilt, perhaps. She pushed forward, holding his gaze.

"I want to continue going to Edinburgh. I don't want you to take someone else in my body again."

He inhaled sharply. "Granger—"

"As terrifying and disgusting as it is, Edinburgh is the one place I get to see my old friends," she rushed over him. "And hear a bit about the world outside."

She paused, biting her lip. She'd decided against telling him about the note or the communication channels. Even though her heart told her that Draco could be trusted, her mind knew it was illogical. He'd kept her in the dark about so many things.

"What are you trying to say, Granger?" He stood next to his desk with his hands in his pockets, staring at her with a tilted gaze.

"We need to be on the same page at these parties. No more rows."

"And how do you propose that?"

"Well, for starters, if I must refrain from kissing Marcus Flint in the future, I suppose I can make the sacrifice," she said dryly.

He rolled his eyes and sighed. "How magnanimous of you."

"I think we need to be more comfortable with each other," she said, jumping right to the point.

His eyes snapped to hers, unreadable.

"I'm too stiff, you're too… skittish." He opened his mouth as if to argue with her. "Against 'intimacy,' whatever," she said with a flippant gesture. His mouth closed, and she looked away from his intense gaze. "I like to go into situations with all the necessary information. I didn't know you had an aversion to kissing, nor did I know about the details of Pansy's trip to Edinburgh in my body" — she was quite proud of her voice for not cracking — "and both of those facts jarred me." She tore her gaze from his desk and found his eyes staring at a point over her shoulder. She swallowed. "I believe Flint read my discomfort."

"And capitalized on it," he finished.

She nodded. Taking a deep breath and remembering Ginny — remembering how she needed her — Hermione asked the question that had brought her down here to begin with.

"Have dinner with me tonight," she said. "Just the two of us."

His eyes jumped to her face. He was still, except for the muscle in his jaw.

"Have…"

"Dinner." She nodded. "I want to discuss what a successful evening in Edinburgh looks like to you. What it would take on my part to convince your friends and the other Death Eaters of the kind of relationship we are supposed to have."

He scratched his neck, and she saw pinpricks of pink under his collar. "I'm out this evening."

The response was swift, and it made Hermione's eyes narrow.

"Tomorrow then," she said. He shifted on his feet, and she cut off the excuse she knew was coming. "Or any day, really. My schedule is wide open."

He stared a hole into his desk as he responded, "Tomorrow."

"Wonderful. I'll arrange everything with the elves. Just the two of us."

He lifted a brow and, with a tinge of reluctance, said, "It's a date."

She felt her pulse pound and her cheeks heat. She mumbled something in the affirmative before disappearing from the doorway and racing up the stairs back to her room.

~*~

Remmy had glared at her when she entered the kitchens and asked for a private dinner to be served for herself and Draco at 8PM. The elf had radiated sarcasm as she asked, "Does Miss want candles on the table too?"

"Only food and wine will be necessary, thank you," Hermione had stammered, before tripping out of the room.

She had afternoon tea with Narcissa, and though she mentioned nothing, she did ask if Hermione wanted to join her for dinner that evening. Hermione had come up with a feeble excuse for taking dinner in her room, praying fervently that Narcissa would take her usual dinner on the veranda. Narcissa simply replied with "Certainly, dear," and took a delicate bite of her biscuit, smiling slyly into her teacup.

The word "date" stuck in her head like glue, flustering her as she tried to prepare for the evening. Hermione had to stop herself from changing out of her denims several times. When her hands had reached for the makeup drawer in her vanity, she busied them with tying her hair into a plait to rest on her shoulder instead, chastising herself for considering something as silly as dressing up for Draco Malfoy.

This wasn't "a date." This was preparation for another outing to Edinburgh. She needed to get back to Ginny, and he needed to ward off suspicion.

Frowning, she studied her reflection in the mirror. She couldn't lose her head about tonight, despite the feelings she hadn't yet managed to bury. She caught herself fixing her hair again, and rolled her eyes at her stupidity — Draco Malfoy would never take her on a date.

At a quarter till eight, she headed down to the dining room to check on preparations. Remmy had set two places, just as she'd asked — one at the head of the table, and one just to the left. A bottle of red wine had been decanted, and the serving dishes were full of vegetables and roast.

She awkwardly took her seat at the side of the table, and only had to wait five minutes before Draco's footsteps drew her gaze to the door. She stood swiftly as he entered, and she was glad to see his dragon leather shoes instead of his Death Eater boots. His eyes skimmed the wine and food on the table before landing back on her, quickly assessing her braided hair and jeans.

"Granger," he greeted before sweeping to his chair at the head of the table, with the confidence of someone who usually enjoyed dinner with his slave.

She managed a quick nod. Retaking her seat, she focused on placing her napkin across her lap as she asked, "How was your day?"

He cleared his throat. "Fine. And yours?"

"Lovely, thank you."

She reached for her wine glass and drank deeply, trying, but failing, to think of something to break the silence. Draco filled his plate with food before pushing the serving plate in her direction, his lips in a thin line. Hermione played with her utensils, heat creeping up her neck.

They ate in silence for thirty-six seconds before she could bear it no longer.

"Clearly neither of us are ones for small talk, but I don't intend to sit for two hours in silence, Malfoy." He lifted a brow at her, and she felt the flush spread to her cheeks. "I have more questions. But I know you hate questions—"

"I don't hate questions—"

"They put you into a 'mood'—"

"They do not. You put me into a mood."

She scowled at him and speared her vegetables with a forceful clink.

He sipped his wine, studying her. She took a large, defiant bite of food, and held his gaze.

"What are your questions, Granger?"

She swallowed thickly. "Who is Charlotte?"

"She's descended from the Selwyn family." He frowned in thought. "Charlotte's mother was disowned for marrying a Muggle-born. The family is British, but Charlotte was raised in Germany. She lived there until her father started organizing against the Dark Lord, at which time she was taken and given to the Carrows."

Hermione's mind whirred, taking it all in. "And why has she been given so much authority at Edinburgh? You said she has more freedom than any other Carrow Girl."

"I couldn't say, really." He sliced into his roast with small, precise cuts. "I suppose it's because she's… quite good at what she does."

A cold suspicion crashed over her. "And what exactly does she do?"

Draco's fork stopped halfway to his mouth. "Host. With a smile. Flirt and joke. Be seen when she needs to be seen, be invisible when she needs to be invisible."

Hermione pursed her lips as she cut her roast. The arrogance of the Death Eaters was astounding. It seemed like an awful oversight to give a girl with a background like Charlotte's the keys to Edinburgh, allowing her to move from room to room largely at will. Hermione stared at her plate as a new thought occurred to her. Charlotte probably knew almost every detail of the goings-on at the castle. Even the ones in the "other" room that Hermione had not yet been allowed in.

She filed the information away and moved to her next question.

"The tattoos. How did you and Blaise find a way around them for Pansy?"

"We didn't." She narrowed her eyes at him, and he shrugged. "A blood purifying spell and pure luck. We weren't sure if it would work. It's my understanding that if Pansy had crossed the estate line, it would have been all but impossible to remove it."

"And you have no idea how to find out a way around these tattoos."

"It's not exactly the kind of question I'd go around asking other Death Eaters, no," he said dryly. "All official slave trades are supposed to go through Yaxley or Dolohov."

"Hence why Pansy's 'dead.'"

"Yes." A muscle in his cheek twitched. "Making your grand escape plan, Granger?"

"Hmm," she said innocently, ignoring his question. "You were willing to divulge information on who escaped at Dover during the card game. Care to share?"

She watched him chew, lips pressed tight with small bites, just like his mother. An aristocratic jaw moving quickly.

"Bill and Fleur Weasley made it out."

Hermione blinked, gaze pulling from his lips. "They did?"

He nodded down at his plate. "And my aunt and her grandson."

Hermione squeezed her napkin in both palms, letting out a shaky breath of relief. Bill, Fleur, and Tonks' mother and baby were safe. She hadn't heard anything about them. Apparently Voldemort had been censoring the Prophet's list of Undesirables as well.

"Do you know where they went?"

"France." He drank his wine, and she watched him swallow. "They're causing quite a few problems for the Dark Lord there."

Hermione smirked into her napkin. Good. When she glanced back up at him, a smile still fading on her lips, he was still looking away from her.

She took a deep breath and braced herself for the second half of her plans for the evening. Grabbing her wine glass and taking two huge gulps, she stood.

His eyes snapped to her. "What are you doing?"

"I think"—she swallowed, hating the reedy sound in her voice—"I think we should practice."

His fork and knife hovered over his plate. His eye twitched. "Practice."

"To get more comfortable around each other." She moved to the other side of him, reaching for the wine bottle. He didn't move an inch while she filled his glass, like she usually did at Edinburgh. Standing just to his side, she pressed her lips together when he didn't look up at her, still frozen in his chair. "I think you should pull me into your lap now."

He placed his utensils down and sucked in a sharp breath. "This is your master plan, Granger?"

"Yes. We need to be more comfortable to put on a convincing show." She twisted her fingers around each other. "We could both use a bit of rehearsal—"

"That won't be necessary."

"I disagree. You saw that stunt Flint pulled, and he'll try it again if we keep giving him reasons to—"

"This whole idea is just childish—"

"What's childish is that you can't bear to touch me!"

"I touch you enough, it's absurd you're asking for more—"

"—and although it's quite obvious that I physically repulse you—"

A dry laugh burst from him.

Her nostrils flared. "I don't know how you behave towards girls you're sleeping with, Malfoy, but if this is your idea of intimacy, then you clearly need more help than I could ever offer—"

His hand darted out and grabbed her opposite hip, tugging her into his lap. She swallowed her squeak and steadied herself on the table, heart pounding. In an attempt to save her dignity, she lifted her chin, shifting until she could sit properly. It seemed it was no less difficult to find a balanced position in her jeans and trainers than it was in a short dress and heels.

"What now, Granger?" he rumbled, and she felt it vibrate through her ribcage.

The tips of her ears burned. "Just… behave normally. Like this is… normal." She cleared her throat and reached for her wine, stretching back to her table setting. "Eat dinner as if I'm not even here."

Draco seemed to take a long, slow breath before picking up his fork again. He pushed his vegetables around, staring at his peas intently.

Hermione refused to stare at her lap — too stiff. She had a few choices. She could awkwardly stare at his face. She could watch him play with his food. Or, the safest option: she could stare at his neck, studying the way the pink blush had spread under her gaze.

"How often do the boys play cards at dinner?" she asked softly, and she watched his throat bob as he swallowed.

"They play maybe every other week. There's no schedule," he said.

"And that's not dangerous? To have the girls as witnesses?"

"They removed their memories after the first two times, but there were complaints that the girls were too addled afterwards. So everyone just... risks it, I suppose. The girls have been instructed to be discreet."

Hermione frowned. Arrogant and barbaric. She thought of the strawberry-blonde and her intent eyes during the game, listening to every detail. The Carrow Girls may be under a tight leash, but they had access to a wealth of knowledge.

She steadied her heartbeat and asked the question she'd been fearing.

"Is there anything else I should know about the night Pansy went as me?"

His jaw tightened as he chewed. He shook his head and reached for his wine glass.

"Are you positive?" she pressed. "I was caught off guard on Friday, and it got us into a situation—"

"There's nothing else to know," he snapped. His wine glass clunked down on the table.

She paused. "Pucey mentioned that we didn't look 'cozy.' He implied that Pansy looked more comfortable at dinner." She took a steadying breath, reminding herself why she had to ask. "In Edinburgh, being discreet means being comfortable with each other. Tell me what that looks like?"

His ribs stopped moving under hers. She felt his stomach muscles stiffen before he took a slow inhale and said, "Pansy and I will be more comfortable with each other by nature of our past relationship. So there was—"

"You mean, because you've had sex."

He exhaled sharply. "I guess, yeah."

Her throat felt dry as she nodded. There was no logical reason for her to think they hadn't slept together at Hogwarts, so she wasn't sure why the confirmation made her stomach turn.

"It's"—he cleared his throat—"it's not just that. Pansy and I were close. I'm sure you'd be far more comfortable sitting in Weasley's lap—"

Hermione snorted. "I have never done anything like this with Ron."

His lips pressed together tightly, and the hand holding his wine glass squeezed.

"So what do I do?" she continued. "What did Pansy do differently?"

He heaved a great, laboring sigh. "Your behavior on Friday was fine. We can keep doing that—"

"Alright then." She reached up and ran through the hair on the back of his head. Brushing her fingers along his scalp, letting the smooth locks thread through her knuckles.

His head jerked away. "What are you doing—?"

"Oh, you have a No Hair Touching Rule as well?" She rolled her eyes. "Relax."

He let out a ragged breath as her fingers dragged through the hair over his ear. She saw him pick up his fork again, but do nothing with it. Brushing through his hair like silk, she curved over his ear, her fingertips rounding the shell.

As he shivered, she thought of the way Goyle and Pucey held their girls close and just watched the card game. The way the strawberry-blonde had massaged Theo's neck and kissed his jaw for luck. The way she'd seen other Carrow girls smile and whisper into boys' ears or nuzzle into their necks.

"Relax," she repeated quietly. She brushed his hair over his ear again, her fingers trailing around and down to his neck, flushed pink with the wine. She leaned forward and pressed her lips to the skin below his ear.

The earth ceased to spin in the heartbeat it took for his arm to curl around her waist, his hand splayed on her ribs. She parted her lips and kissed him again. His skin was clean and minty, and she felt his throat bob under her mouth as he swallowed.

And then in quick movements, she was pushed to her feet, and he was up out of his chair.

"The fuck are you doing?" he hissed.

She steadied herself on the table and watched him touch his neck, where her lips had just been. His mouth moved wordlessly as he stared at her. Maybe he felt like she'd contaminated him.

"I'm doing what I'm supposed to," she snarled. "If you'd just calm down—"

"You can't just sit in a bloke's lap and kiss his neck, Granger!"

She blinked at him, breathing quickly as he dragged a hand through his hair.

"And why not? That is precisely what happens at Edinburgh—"

"That's Edinburgh!" he snapped. "This is here, in my house!"

Her eyes were wide as she watched him move toward the exit.

"What is your problem? We're practicing—!"

"You cannot be this daft," he muttered, striding out of the dining room.

She stormed after him, stopping at the doorway.

"We're not done, Malfoy! I expect you at dinner tomorrow evening!"

He disappeared around a corner, and Hermione cursed under her breath, throwing her arms in the air.

She stomped to the table, drained her glass of wine, and finished her plate — and his, too, in case he planned to summon it later.

~*~

After sending an elf to Draco's room with a formal invitation to supper, Hermione spent the rest of her Monday Occluding.

She was perfectly prepared to spend another meal in his lap again, and she'd work harder to convince him of the necessity. Pushing away her stray thoughts about the scent of his skin and the warmth of his chest against her side, she focused on Ginny. She focused on how to stay in the game.

At a quarter till eight, she made her way downstairs. She was still waiting for him to arrive at 8:05, glaring into her wine glass despite her self-assurance that she'd be less reactive this time. At 8:12, she finally heard footsteps dragging across the stones. When she turned to lift a brow at him, he looked very much like a child that had been dragged with his parent to the office for the day — scowling with bored eyes, resigned to having a terrible time.

"Good evening," she lilted sarcastically.

He shuffled to his place at the table without a word. Once he was seated, she stood, poured his wine, and sat determinedly in his lap, as if daring him to object. His expression didn't change as she tugged her plate of food closer, sipped her wine, or munched on the finger food that Remmy had sent as their first course.

"I have another question," she said primly, breaking the silence. He didn't respond, ignoring her gaze boring into him as he drank deeply from his wine. "Where is your father?"

That earned her a scowl, and he plunked his glass back on the table. "You know I can't tell you that."

"You were about to gamble that information away on Friday."

"I knew I was going to win."

"You tied. That was hardly winning." She felt his ribs expand against hers with a deep breath. "You were only going to name the country," she continued, in a gentler tone. "You can't even give me that?"

The expression that flashed through his eyes momentarily stunned her. A softness that told her maybe she could ask anything of him. She blinked at him over her wine glass, and it was gone.

Perhaps she'd imagined it.

"Romania." His long fingers toyed with the white tablecloth. "That's all I know."

"Romania," she repeated, willing her heartbeat to calm. "He's gone indefinitely?"

Draco nodded. "He can make emergency Floo calls, but he's not to be disturbed unless strictly necessary."

She frowned, knowing she had nothing but pure speculation.

Not wanting to push him too much after the previous evening, she refrained from asking more questions. She sat quietly in his lap as he finished his wine and ate his meal, her mind sorting through all she'd learned.

She was disappointed by how much he didn't know — how much she still didn't know— but at least it was a start. She didn't have the sense that he'd lied or withheld information from her. More importantly, they seemed to be making progress on an interpersonal level. Despite the evening's rocky start, they hadn't fought, which was a significant improvement.

The next night, she ate early and finished her wine quickly, giving her the courage she needed to push their boundaries a bit farther. She spent the meal curled into his side, running her fingers through his hair as he poked at his vegetables. She noticed that he held her eye longer than usual, and she tried her best to ignore the fluttering in her chest each time it happened.

"What about the Lounge," she asked.

She felt him breathe before saying, "What about it?"

"I've only been once." She took a deep sip from her wine glass. "You said the atmosphere is calmer—?"

"This is fine," he cut her off. "What we're doing here"—his hand gestured between them—"will be fine for Friday."

She lifted a brow, but kept her reservations to herself. They'd cross that bridge later, but for now, she didn't want to upset their progress. It was still too fragile.

As the week progressed, Draco began to distract her thoughts even more than usual. She had to increase the amount of time she spent Occluding in the morning so she could stay on task the rest of the day while she scoured the Prophet and continued researching.

But at night, when it was just the two of them, she pulled his shelf forward, letting his volumes flutter open to vibrant colors and patterns.

It was dangerous, she knew, given her history of feelings for him — but she couldn't see a way around the need to build trust. A solid connection with him, if not a friendship. She ignored the niggling voice in her head that told her she didn't want to find another way.

On Wednesday, she picked off his plate while sitting against his chest. He fought her for the last of his potatoes, his fork jabbing at her fingers when she reached for them. Her pulse thrummed as she smiled and tried to offer him the potato, pressing it to his lips. He rolled his eyes and turned his face away.

That's how Narcissa Malfoy found the two of them — with Hermione in her son's lap, his arm wrapped around her waist, and her trying to feed him as he dramatically twisted his head from side to side.

"Oh," Narcissa said.

Hermione gasped, tumbling out of Draco's lap. Draco jumped up, knocking over his wine glass.

"We weren't—"

"This isn't what it looks—"

"It's only that—"

"Couldn't have knocked, Mother?"

"My," Narcissa hummed, and Hermione felt her face turn beet red at the barely concealed grin spreading across her features. "Don't let me interrupt."

"You're not interrupting anything," Draco said quickly, almost shouting the words. He started to push in his chair, shoving it roughly after it skidded noisily on the floor.

"No, no." Narcissa waved her hands. "Please finish your meal. I insist." And with a sparkle in her eye, she said, "Is there anything I can bring you? More wine? Perhaps the elves can bring dessert?"

"Mother," Draco hissed in warning.

Hermione stared at her shoes, pulse pounding in her ears. Her skin felt itchy with guilt and embarrassment in every place that had just been in contact with Draco's body.

"Very well, then. Enjoy the rest of your dinner." Narcissa glided out of the room with a cheeky wink.

Hermione dropped her head into her hands as soon as she turned the corner. "Oh god," she groaned.

Draco shifted on his feet before excusing himself with an unintelligible mumble, leaving her alone in the dining room with only her burning skin and guilty conscience.

~*~

On Friday, they followed the now-familiar path to the courtyard, though she fell in step with him easily this time. She refrained from playing with her collar as best she could, but she felt the note burning her skin. She'd debated about it all day Thursday, but still didn't feel like she should tell Draco about the note yet. She could only pray that she'd have another opportune moment alone with the strawberry-blonde.

When Charlotte greeted them with champagne, Hermione studied her carefully. But the brunette simply smiled and toasted them as they passed, her eyes quickly flitting away. Hermione tried to keep eye contact, tried to communicate with her, but the curtain closed on them while she turned to greet another guest.

She found Cho hanging off of Mulciber's arm across the Great Hall, smiling as his hand drifted lower on her back. But Hermione's interest was elsewhere, her eyes wide and alert for any sign of the strawberry-blonde. Before she could get a decent look around the room, Draco was leading her up the twisting steps, passing Harper's check, and through the doors to the dining room. Hermione swallowed her disappointment, wondering if she'd made a mistake by not telling him.

The first thing she noticed was Blaise Zabini laughing jovially at something Nott had said. Her eyes darted behind Nott's chair and found a different Carrow Girl waiting quietly to pour the wine. Her eyes scanned, but still not a trace of the strawberry-blonde. The disappointment in her stomach twisted more heavily.

"Be still my heart," a voice called out as the door shut behind them, and Hermione turned to find Marcus Flint with bowing dramatically at her. "My lady approaches."

She cast her eyes down, ready to play her part.

"Not your lady," Draco snapped, part warning, part playful edge to his voice.

"Oh, Love," Flint crooned, "did Draco whomp you good and proper after last week? Never one to share, our boy. Why don't you bend over my lap so I can kiss it better?"

The boys laughed as Draco took his seat, his jaw barely tensing before it loosened in a grin. More greetings and conversation as she assumed her position in front of the window. She took an inventory of the girls around the table, starting at her right: several Carrow Girls who usually rotated around Higgs, Derrick, and Warrington; Susan behind Goyle; and Penelope behind Flint. But Mortensen was absent from her place behind Pucey's chair, replaced with a Carrow Girl.

She cataloged the information and moved on before losing her breath at the sight of the Italian Minister's niece standing behind Zabini's chair. Giuliana Bravieri looked so small. Her eyes staring down at her shoes, her wrists thin and crossed submissively in front of her stomach. Hermione's heart ached, bile rising in her throat at the reminder of what she'd been through, followed by sharp anger. So much for her "not appearing anytime soon." But then, perhaps Draco hadn't known she would be here tonight.

Ten girls stepped forward, pouring wine into crystal glasses, and before she could return to the wall, Draco's arm was around her waist, guiding her to his lap. Other than Zabini lifting a theatrical brow at them, no one else said a word about it. Hermione was quite pleased with their "practicing" paying off, but she did have a moment of guilt for the extra minutes Susan had to spend against Goyle's chest when he quickly followed Draco's lead.

She crossed her legs in her little slip, tilting her knees toward Draco's waist. His left arm slipped over her hip, holding her to him instead of clenching his fingers tight around the arm of the chair. When she shifted in his lap, nuzzling into his neck and letting her fingers play with the hair on the back of his head, he didn't flinch. She felt giddy with success. Their time together had paid off, just like she'd predicted.

He jostled her when he laughed at something Zabini said, and she turned to the source, finding the Italian girl staring at her with deep brown eyes. She was sitting gingerly in Zabini's lap, as though he wasn't nearly as comfortably intimate with her as he'd been with the others. Hermione felt examined, flayed open by her gaze. The girl quickly turned her eyes back to the tablecloth, a small smile pulling at her full lips, almost as if she'd been caught. Hermione swallowed and pushed her concerns for the young girl aside, focusing on what information she could gather.

Nothing noteworthy caught her ear in the table's conversation after the first half hour. But then Theo's voice rang out above the others.

"There's a One O'Clock Gun tonight," he said, lazily twirling his fork in the air.

A collective murmur of interest swept through the table. All except Draco, whose thighs tensed beneath hers. She dragged her fingers through his hair, rubbing circles in his scalp like he'd done for her their first night here.

The phrase was familiar, but she couldn't place it. It seemed like a military expression.

"I love dinner and a show," Flint said, and the table erupted into laughter.

Draco's hand squeezed her hip — shivering her skin pleasantly. She caught herself, refocusing. She had more pressing concerns, like whether this new event would cut into her time to find the strawberry-blonde.

Feeling eyes on her, she turned to find Giuliana Bravieri staring at Draco's hand on her hip with gleeful curiosity. Hermione frowned at her, trying to decipher what the girl was thinking. Her brown eyes flickered up to hers, and just before the girl looked away to stare submissively down at the tablecloth again, she lifted her brow at Hermione — a perfect arch — and sent her a mischievous smirk — one born from years of practice, years of superiority and status.

Hermione felt her breath stutter in her chest.

Pansy.

Could it be? It was too much of a coincidence that this broken fourteen-year-old could conjure a smile like that.

Hermione caught herself staring, and closed the book on Pansy, shoving it away. She turned her eyes back to the table, and opened her ears again.

It was a rather uneventful evening in the dining room, despite the hours they sat there talking and laughing. Pucey was bringing up past memories of notable Quidditch games at Hogwarts. She heard Harry's name several times, and she felt the pages of his book shiver and rattle until she forced them to settle in her mind.

A chiming, amplified throughout the dining room, cutting off the music playing and silencing the voices in surprise. Hermione looked up, searching for the source. The clock on the wall read quarter till one.

The boys cheered, grabbing their drinks and gripping their girls close, rubbing their hands together.

Draco peeled her off of him, all tension returning to his body. Zabini shared a look with Giuliana — Pansy.

"What is it?" Hermione whispered to Draco.

He shook his head at her in warning and followed the others as they descended the spiral staircase into the Great Hall. She kept her eyes open for the strawberry-blonde, searching the crowd of people as they headed to the exits into the courtyard.

Her hand reached for her collar to adjust it, and she caught herself.

"She has to use the loo," Draco announced. "I'll join you at the Mills Mount."

Pansy snapped her head to them, looking out from Giuliana's brown eyes. Hermione turned up to Draco as he steered them toward the hallway. Her mouth opened to ask—

"Don't," he hissed. "Just trust me on this."

She felt her heart pounding in her ears as Draco led them around the crowd, suddenly cutting left to the fireplaces.

"Not leaving already, Malfoy?" a gravelly voice sounded from behind her. "I haven't even had a chance to say hello."

Hermione's chest rattled, hair standing on end from the memory of eyes on her naked body, a hand between her legs, a scratchy voice whispering filthy things into her ear. Draco held her in a punishing grip as they turned to face Antonin Dolohov, his black eyes focused on her.

"Dolohov," Draco greeted in a stilted voice. "Back from Italy so soon?"

"Just today." His gaze skated over her chest, her waist, her legs. "I'd heard you'd been letting her out of her cage. Had to come see for myself."

There was a pounding in her blood, but she focused on holding her head high, meeting his eyes.

"And now you've seen," Draco replied curtly. "If you'll excuse us—"

"Not sharing her either, I've heard," Dolohov said, stepping so subtly to the left, blocking the narrow path around him. "What a shame that is." He took a small step forward, cocking his head. His eyes hadn't left her once. "With me, you would have been the Queen of Edinburgh, Mudblood. The grandest prize, presented and polished. You would have had your fill of pure-blood cock every Friday until you were overflowing with it."

A chill passed along her shoulders, but she didn't move a muscle. Draco shifted, his shoulder passing into her sightline, putting himself in front of her.

"Just to come home to your worthless half-blood prick?" Draco lilted, and she could hear the nasty smirk in his voice, so reminiscent of their school days. "I think she got the better deal, Antonin."

Dolohov sneered and stepped into him, nose-to-nose. "Your daddy's not here, Malfoy. I'd be very careful what you say to me."

"Oh, I have nothing to say to you at all. We have a binding agreement, Antonin," Draco said lowly. "Now kindly step away from me and my Lot. I'll only ask you once."

"You've been keeping her locked away for far too long, Malfoy. Careful," he warned. "Or someone might figure out how to pick the lock."

Draco's left arm was still twisted behind himself, squeezing her wrist so hard she knew it would bruise. He breathed a humorless laugh, and slapped Dolohov's upper arm.

"Good to see you, Antonin. I'll give my father your regards."

With a sharp tug, he pulled her around him, passing Dolohov on the right with a shove to his shoulder. Hermione didn't look back, only focused on putting one foot in front of the other.

They moved into the chill of the courtyard, and she chanced a look to Draco's face — stony, impassive. She realized they were following the crowd traipsing down a winding pathway, weaving through centuries-old buildings. The resignation in his face grew, and he kept glancing over his shoulder. Draco was no longer looking for a quick exit.

She felt a cold horror build in her chest as they walked into the crowd gathering at the base of the hill. A courtyard looking out over the horizon of Edinburgh filled with black hoods and girls shivering in flimsy slips.

Hermione took in the crowd. There was more than just the revelers from the castle here. She spied a handful of shadows on top of the hill, prowling with canine movements, howling. At the edges of the crowd, smugglers and dealers from Edinburgh stalked, trying to entice the fringes of the masses into buying their wares.

Draco walked her towards the middle to a cleared space. A pair of hooded figures shifted in front of her. Hermione's heart jumped in her throat. The strawberry-blonde stood at the front of the crowd, standing against the ledge overlooking the city.

She gasped breathlessly, stunned into silence. Sound disappeared in a vacuum.

The girl stood in a ragged slip, her hands magically bound in front of her. Her chin was lifted, and she was murmuring something, lips moving quickly. To her left, a boy with the same color of curls on top of his head stood shaking. He couldn't have been more than fifteen.

Hermione thought of the note stuck between her skin and the gold collar. Had the girl been caught? Did someone know what she was doing with the collars? Hermione spun around — was someone coming for her as well? — and felt herself jerked backward by Draco's hand, squeezing her tightly in warning.

Amycus Carrow stepped into view, and the cheering hit her in full force. Amycus smiled toothily and amplified his voice, greeting the crowd.

"To the Dark Lord's power," he boomed.

And the crowd responded, "May he reign forevermore."

"A traitor to the Dark Lord's reign stands before you," Amycus hissed. "She and her brother — two Muggles"—the masses snarled—"find themselves ungrateful for everything we've given them here, at the center of the Dark Lord's power."

The booing and spitting rang in her ears. Draco stood behind her, a hand still on her elbow.

Hermione knew what was to come. The girl and her brother were standing at a firing squad. They were to be executed, here, in front of them all. Hermione searched the crowd for someone, anyone. Her knees buckled as she tried to turn about, and Draco's hand tightened on her again.

Her eyes landed on Charlotte, still passing drinks around on a tray, smiling tightly. She watched as Charlotte glanced to the front, a stab of sadness in her eyes that couldn't be masked quickly enough.

Hermione looked back to the strawberry-blonde as Charlotte gazed on her. The Scottish girl in the front of the crowd was staring directly at Hermione, an intensity electrifying the space between them. Hermione felt her heart splintering at the edges.

"This Muggle filth," Carrow continued, "showed no appreciation for what we've given her. We allowed her and her brother into our world. Allowed them to serve us, as is their rightful place. And how does she repay us?"

She held her breath, watching the strawberry-blonde flicker her gaze between Hermione and Charlotte.

"By attacking one of her superiors!" Amycus bellowed, his spittle flying into the crowd. "By forgetting her natural place. Her brother — a filthy groundskeeper"—he paused for emphasis, and the crowd jeered—"was chosen to serve one of our guests. And this Muggle slut attacked the wizard that would have graciously bestowed his attention her brother!"

Hermione inhaled sharply. This girl's sentencing had nothing to do with Ginny Weasley or assisting with a plot to murder the Dark Lord. The girl settled her gaze on her again, and Hermione's mouth dried, heartbeat quickening as her brain scrambled for a plan—

"Champagne, Master Malfoy?"

Charlotte stood in front of her, blocking the girl and her brother from view. Hermione blinked at her, mouth gaping open.

"No, Charlotte," Draco clipped behind her. "Thank you."

Charlotte turned her eyes on Hermione for the first time that evening. "Poor dear," she said in a motherly tone so out of place with her scarlet dress and cleavage. "You must be freezing."

A hand against Hermione's cheek.

"She's practically an icicle." Charlotte's hand drifted down her jaw, stretching to her collar. "You'll have to ask Master Malfoy nicely for a Warming Charm." She scratched the paper from under the metal, slipping against Hermione's skin like rough sand. "I'm sure you could convince him."

Charlotte winked at her, but there was something fiery in it. A tension in her jaw that promised blood. And then she was gone, sauntering through the crowd, one hand fisted at her side.

Hermione felt the world tilting on its axis, and it took her several long seconds to realize that Draco was steadying her lower back, pushing her upright. She barely registered the Warming Charm he cast over her. She stiffened and looked back to the Scottish girl and her brother, ears ringing.

Amycus Carrow was recounting her sins, speaking in rousing tones about Muggle crimes befitting Muggle punishments. The strawberry-blonde turned to her sobbing brother, speaking quickly, too low to overhear. He nodded solemnly, his shiny eyes never leaving his sister's.

They were Muggles. They had no business getting involved in any of this horror. And yet, this was the girl who'd grasped her hand under the table with glass digging into her knees. A girl who had risked everything to get Ginny's note to her. Just like she'd risked everything to protect her little brother.

A noise to her left. Hermione glanced over to find a Silver Collar girl with silent tears trailing down her cheeks.

A wild cheering brought her attention back to the front. A cannon wheeled forward.

The One O'Clock Gun.

Terror gripped her as the old war cannon spun slowly to face the two siblings.

"No!" she choked, but it was too loud everywhere — inside her mind and out.

A pair of hands on her waist. A firm chest against her shoulder blades.

Amycus called out that they would prove how foolish it was for anyone, let alone a pair of filthy Muggles, to resist the Dark Lord's will. They would take the boy first, and let his sister watch.

Hermione turned, heaving for air. A hooded Death Eater on her right turned to glare at her. The hands on her waist turned her back, forcing her to face ahead as they aimed the cannon.

A sharp jaw pressed to her temple. Warm breath fanning across her cheekbones.

"There is a lake with still waters," he whispered. "A mountain range surrounds it. The waters are deep with hidden secrets, but the water is still."

She blinked, legs swaying, feeling her breathing even out as she let his words wash over her. His hands slipped around her stomach, pressing her close to him.

They lit the cannon. And screamed and stomped while they counted down.

"Think of your mind as a library. Shelves upon shelves of novels and journals and biographies," the voice lulled. "Find an empty shelf for this moment."

An explosive boom, rocking the stones beneath her feet. Hermione watched with a slack jaw as the spot where the boy stood smoked and crumbled, his sister speckled with his blood. The cannon was reloaded.

"An empty book in your hands. Its blank pages between your fingers. Write this moment into the book. Give it a title."

The One O'Clock Gun, her mind supplied.

"Fill the pages, and close the book."

The cannon aimed at the strawberry-blonde. She shed tears slowly, mixing with her brother's blood and dripping pink down her neck.

"Close the book, and push it into a corner. Lose it within the piles and piles of texts and novels."

A book's pages fluttered shut in her mind. It locked. And she breathed deep, stretching to her tiptoes to push it onto a shelf that was just too tall for her to reach. She imagined a hand with long fingers helping her reach the top.

A cannon was lit.

There was a girl crying.

A crowd cheered and counted the seconds.

The girl tilted her head back to the sky and screamed.

She disappeared in a spray of smoke and blood and rage.

Hands around Hermione's waist, pulling her close. A sharp jaw cutting into her temple.

Hands leading her backward, tugging her past the screaming fanatics and werewolves and other monsters. Pulling her to climb a cobblestone hill, moving into a courtyard, into a hall.

She found herself stepping through a fireplace and into a bedroom with green curtains and neatly organized trinkets.

She turned around, bookshelves swaying and buckling, and Draco Malfoy stood before her in his bedroom.

His hands came to rest on her jaw, examining her eyes.

"Look at me."

She blinked, and they crashed to the ground. Free.

Her senses were overwhelmed. Shivers over her skin, gasping breaths from her chest, a flood of tears down her cheeks. She sobbed, her hands clutching his elbows, keeping him close.

And without knowing how, she pressed against his chest, her forehead pushing into his sternum. Her cries shook her body. He enclosed his arms around her back.

A hole in her stomach the shape of a cannonball. Filled with grief and rage and despair.

Draco didn't say a word, simply holding her.

She pulled back when she'd finally exhausted herself, stepping away from him. She knew she was red and swollen and wet. But he looked down at her with a raw passion that she couldn't feel vulnerable.

"They're going to pay for what they did," she vowed, her voice hollow and misshapen.

His grey eyes stared down at her. He moved a curl behind her ear. And he nodded.

Waking on Saturday morning was like pulling herself from a thick bramble that had settled over her in the night. Fighting her way back to consciousness, she struggled against aching muscles and a pounding behind her left eye.

She turned on her side and willed her body out of bed. But she couldn't move.

And then she remembered.

The Occlumency.

The One O'Clock Gun.

The strawberry-blonde's scream.

Dolohov's eyes.

And Draco's voice in her ear, steadying her, guiding her through the night's horrors.

He'd let her sob, let her lean on him, holding her close. And then he'd nodded. Agreeing with her? Agreeing to help her?

He'd called for an elf to take her back to her room with a Dreamless Sleep Potion, and her mind had shut down the moment her body slid in between the sheets.

Her eyes fluttered open as her mind sputtered to life, remembering all the things she needed to be doing. But such strong Occlumency had taken a toll on her body and mind. In spite of her intentions, she found herself drifting back out to sea.

~*~

When she could finally sit up in bed, the clock next to bed read four in the afternoon.

Hermione groaned. She couldn't afford to lose any more time. She needed to build up her Occlumency endurance. She needed to set an alarm from now on. She needed the elves to splash her with pails of cold water if she didn't move before nine.

Dragging her legs from the covers, she sat on the edge of her bed until she could pull herself into the bathroom. When she returned from a cold shower, there was a pain relief potion on her nightstand. She sent a prayer of thanks to the elves and downed the contents.

Once her head was clear again, Hermione focused her thoughts, closing the books in her mind that held the horrors of the One O'Clock Gun and the grief for the nameless Scottish girl and her brother.

A fresh memory fluttered to the surface. Arms holding her close, long fingers tracing the shell of her ear. Grey eyes locked on hers as he'd nodded.

Draco. He'd helped her last night. And maybe he'd help her again. Her heart thumped with the possibilities.

She threw on a jumper and denims and headed down the hall to Draco's door. A few knocks and several long minutes of waiting — and nothing. She wasn't surprised to find him absent, as he was rarely where she needed him to be.

His study was empty. The drawing room was empty.

But when she hurried down the stairs and pushed open the doors to the library, the sight stopped her in her tracks. Texts were strewn across the chairs, the floor, the small end tables. A dozen books hovered in front of their shelves, waiting to be plucked by whoever had called upon them from the book finder.

Hermione's lips parted at the sound of pages turning quickly from deep in the stacks. And then— "Still not hungry."

She blinked. She peered behind her shoulder to see if Mippy or Narcissa were standing there with a tray. As she turned back to the stacks, Draco poked his head from around a shelf, glaring. When he saw it was her, his frown vanished, and he snapped his book shut. He pulled a quill from behind his ear — a habit from school — and twisted it between his fingers.

"Granger," he said. "I thought you were Mother."

His eyes whipped around the room, as if just taking in the disarray she'd walked into. She held her breath as she studied him, watching the flush creep up his neck. He dropped the arm holding the book and tilted it so slightly behind him, and her eyes followed the movement.

"What are you researching?"

"Just looking for a solution to a problem," he clipped. He swallowed and ran a hand through his hair.

She nodded slowly, undeterred. She moved a few steps closer. "I wanted to thank you for your kindness last night."

He stared at her stiffly as she gazed up at him. His eyes different from the warm ones that had locked on hers last night, in his bedroom.

"You're welcome."

She waited for more, but nothing came. "And I wanted to—"

"Granger, I'm in the middle of something. Can this wait?"

She startled at the bite in his tone. There was a tension in his posture, a squaring of his shoulders that she recognized from Quidditch matches. Determination.

Suddenly she felt very silly. Thanking him for taking care of her while she cried. Thinking something had shifted. Her eyes prickled, and she snapped her mouth shut.

His eyes instantly softened. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," she replied, watching his shoulders release. The burning behind her eyes faded into a slow throb. "Exhausted." She stood surrounded by all of his books and notes and messy piles. "Is this 'problem' anything I could help with?"

She inched toward the table filled with notes, eyeing an open book on the edge. Draco was there in the blink of an eye, slamming it closed. She managed to catch a glimpse of runes and Germanic translations scribbled on parchment before he swiftly stepped in front of her.

Her eyes flickered up to him, so close she had to tilt her head back. They'd been this close the night before, when he'd folded his arms around her as she sobbed. He'd pushed a curl over her ear and stared into her watering eyes like he'd been entranced.

She pushed the memories away. "I am pretty good at research, if you'll recall." She smiled, hoping he couldn't resist the chance to tease her. To let her in.

Instead he jerked his head. "No. I'm almost there." He swallowed tightly. "Thank you, though."

She blinked quickly, nodding her disappointment at her shoes. Maybe when he was done with his "problem," they could finally talk. She lifted her chin, took a deep breath, and said, "I find that in most cases, the answer is right in front of you."

His lips parted on a silent inhale, as if her flippant remark had disturbed him. Pink spots high on his cheeks as his eyes roved over her before returning to her gaze.

"Thank you, Granger. I'll keep an eye out for that," he murmured.

Nodding one last time, she excused herself, heading to the doorway. As she turned to close the library doors, she caught a glimpse of him sitting at the table, beginning to organize whatever he was researching. She was reminded of sixth year when he would sulk in corners and hunch over books in the library, looking pale and thin.

She ate dinner alone in her bedroom, poring over a heavy book on the history of South America that contained a reference to magical slavery somewhere. She made it three chapters before an overwhelming exhaustion pushed at her eyelids, beckoning her to sleep.

~*~

"Granger, wake up."

Her eyes snapped open, her body jolting with the presence of someone else in her room. It was pitch black.

A candle flamed next to her, revealing Narcissa leaning over her bedside table, shaking out a match.

"It's alright, dear," she whispered, but there was a quiver to her voice. She pulled back the coverlet, refusing to make eye contact. "It's alright," she said — more to herself.

"What—" Hermione fell silent, lips parting at the sight of Draco coming around the other side of her bed with another candle. His fingers fumbled a match out of a box, dropping it next to the candle without lighting it.

"What's happened?" she asked.

"Come." Narcissa peeled back the sheets over her legs, reaching for her. "Come with me."

Hermione scrambled out of bed, heart pounding in her ears. Narcissa led her into the bathroom suite as Draco moved to the fireplace, wand tracing a spell over the flames.

Opening the Floo.

Narcissa shut the door behind them, and Hermione blinked, taking in the elegant Narcissa Malfoy in her dressing gown, sans makeup, sans tailored robes. A white silk nightgown hanging limply from her elbow, and a pale expression to match.

"Remove your nightclothes," Narcissa whispered.

Hermione swallowed, mind begging for answers. But something told her to obey. "Are we going somewhere?" she squeaked. Her fingers moved quickly over her buttons, cold and quivering.

"No, dear. There's… someone is—"

She watched Narcissa struggle for words. Hermione's eyes went wide with rising terror, her breath coming quick. Voldemort?

"We're having visitors first thing in the morning," Narcissa finally managed. "I don't know why. We were told they need to do a medical examination."

Hermione pulled the opened shirt off her shoulders with shaking fingers, fear overriding her modesty as Narcissa bunched up the white silk and tossed it over her neck.

"Alright," she rasped. Chills bursting along her skin as the silk slipped over her. Too long. Probably Narcissa's. "And what are we doing?"

"There's an old spell. Something that they used to use on their daughters… A ritual."

Hermione stood frozen in terror as she let Narcissa's hands pull the gown down her legs. Fingers push her hair to the side. A cool chain draped over her shoulders as Narcissa placed a crystal necklace over her.

"What kind of ritual?" She didn't recognize the sound of her own voice. The crystal hummed against her skin. Magical.

Narcissa's cool blue eyes met hers. They pierced her, studying her.

"They will be able to see that your virginity is intact," she said quietly. "So, we're going to take it."

Hermione's skin tingled, feeling the weight of the silk gown on her shoulders. Waiting for the words to make sense to her.

A rattling knock at the bathroom door. "1:59," Draco's clipped tone rang out. Her body jerked, and Narcissa gripped her arms to guide her out.

Draco stood aside to let them pass, his eyes firmly planted on the mantle clock above the fireplace. Narcissa guided her to the bed, pushing her to sit.

Her mind caught up to her circumstances as Narcissa knelt before her, produced a bowl of water, dipped her fingers, and brushed her fingertips over Hermione's eyes and lips.

There was a ritual.

A ritual to trick the virginity spell. The one they'd cast on her to decide her starting price at the Auction.

Narcissa whispered something into the water bowl — something in German — before bringing it to her lips and swallowing half. She looked to Draco. He stood rooted to the carpets, muscles moving in his jaw.

This is what he'd been researching. Finding this ritual. He hadn't let her help him.

The small chime from the mantle clock, and he turned to them. "It's time."

He faced her, his grey eyes dead in the moonlight. Narcissa pushed the bowl to her, bringing it to Hermione's lips. Hermione drank the rest of the water, watching Draco over the rim. He stared her down as she swallowed.

He knew last night that they were coming. He knew they'd find her untouched, and he'd ransacked the library for a solution to his problem.

Hermione's breath hitched at the realization that he'd skipped over the easiest one.

Narcissa placed the bowl on the nightstand and crawled onto the bed, her long limbs gracefully folding under herself. She guided Hermione to sit in front of her, both facing the fireplace. Draco paced to the end of the bed, hand against the bedpost, watching the clock.

She opened her mouth to break the silence, to ask about the spell, and question the research, but the words died in her throat as the fireplace burned green, and Lucius Malfoy stepped through.

And her heart thumped in her chest.

Lucius glanced at her, dressed in white silk, waiting for him on a bed.

Draco stepped forward, pulling a book from his robes and flipping it open.

"From the Germanic. I've checked the translation. It's accurate." He met his father at the fireplace. "I've outlined the steps. The candle, the blood, the incantation—"

Lucius Malfoy raised a hand, halting his son. He took the book from him and peered down, turning the pages. The air around Draco seemed to buzz with a dark, twisting energy as he waited for permission to speak again.

A page turned, and Lucius paused, his brow arched. Hermione watched his eyes move quickly over the same passage until they lifted to her.

The book snapped shut. Lucius assessed her and said, "And if it doesn't work?"

"It will." Draco's mouth was in a hard line.

"And if it doesn't?"

"Then I'll think of something else."

But Lucius was staring at her. She blinked at him, feeling the question under her skin.

If this doesn't work, will you do this the easy way?

She swallowed, and tilted her head into the tiniest of nods.

Lucius's eyes returned to the text, browsing the words lazily, casually, like one might window shop at Diagon Alley. He was supposed to be in Romania. He was only permitted emergency Floo calls. They'd brought him in for an illicit dark ritual, and he had the nerve to act as if they had all the time in the world.

As if all of their lives weren't at stake.

Draco's fingers twitched. Narcissa's breath stirred her hair.

Lucius closed the book and handed it back to Draco. He looked at the mantle clock and turned to her. "Ready."

"Let me see the book," Hermione said, voice too loud for the quiet room. "Let me read it first—"

"There's no time, Miss Granger," Lucius said, and she could hear the sneer in his voice as he crossed to the unlit candle by her bed.

"What does it do?" She turned her neck to look up at Narcissa, who was pressing her lips together and fixing a disappointed glare across the room. Hermione swiveled in the direction of her gaze to find Draco near the windows, watching silently.

"There's no need to worry, dear," Narcissa whispered into her ear.

Lucius struck the match. And the flames hissed out in the fireplace.

The only light in the room was from the two candles, casting shadows against their cheekbones and chins.

Narcissa crossed her legs and guided Hermione to lay with her head in her lap. She stared at the canopy as her mind raced.

Who was coming? What were they looking for? Why now?

And then all thoughts of possibilities swept from her mind as Lucius Malfoy climbed into her bed.

She jerked her legs, almost kicking him as his long limbs crawled like a panther to sit beside her. Narcissa grabbed at her arms to calm her, to hold her still.

"What does this spell entail?" she repeated, her voice cracking in her dry throat.

Lucius's calm features sharpened into a smirk. "Now, now. Don't fret, Miss Granger. Just lie back and think of England."

"Lucius," Narcissa warned.

Hermione felt her heartbeat strain beneath Narcissa's fingers, pounding to get out of her. And before she could ask another question, Lucius was pulling a knife from his robes, his impassive mask on once more. She gaped at the glint of the blade as he pressed one long hand firmly against her collarbone. The knife drew a quick, shallow slice against her heart, too quick for her to wince. She watched with wide eyes as Lucius's lips formed a silent prayer, wisps of German brushing across her forehead.

She looked at Draco, bathed in moonlight near the windows, watching with his hand clapped over his mouth. Their eyes met.

And the candles went out.

She felt the darkness like a cold plunge into water. If she didn't have the pressure of Narcissa's fingers on her wrists, she'd have shrieked.

Lucius's cool tones dripped ancient words across her face. She felt him shift back, hovering over her stomach and chanting.

Her limited German caught words like "devil" and "protection."

She jerked her head over to where Draco stood in the corner, and her dizzy mind imagined she could see the whites of his eyes reflecting the darkness back at her.

A sharp pull from her belly, like the worst kind of menstrual cramps. She gasped, jerking. Narcissa held her down, and Lucius raised his voice as he continued chanting.

It felt like her intestines were fighting to twist in opposing directions. She squirmed, trying to stretch her body into positions that would alleviate the cramping, but it was like a wrenching low in her stomach.

She groaned, and she heard the floor creak near the windows.

A tight pop, as if something inside of her dislocated. She scrunched her eyes shut in pain, blocking out the darkness.

And a wash of peace. Like a Calming Draught. Like sunlight. Her stomach relaxed.

She opened her eyes, praying that it worked, and found Lucius Malfoy's face boring over her in the candlelight.

No. Not candlelight. A ball the size of her fist hovered over her stomach. Just like the spell the Mediwitches cast months ago, burning so white it looked blue.

It cast shadows across the pitch-black room, sparking warmth in Lucius's grey eyes.

Narcissa's fingers threaded through her hair gently as every pair of eyes stared at the ball of energy, symbolizing what hadn't yet been taken from her. She watched the light fluctuate like fairy wings held it afloat.

A glass jar pushed into view, scooping under slowly, capturing the orb, and closing a lid over top. She looked up to see Draco screwing the lid on, watching the light breathe. His eyes danced with its glow, and she watched his lips part in wonder.

Victorious.

She tried to remember if she'd ever seen him catch the Snitch.

He held the jar in one hand, pulled his wand in the other, and cast the Virginity Detection spell. The scan hummed over her head and toes, scanning towards center. When the magic reached her abdomen, the four of them watched with bated breath.

And nothing. The scan stopped.

She didn't know what was supposed to happen if she wasn't a virgin. She hadn't seen it.

No one moved. She heard Draco swallow.

"Did it work?" she whispered.

A pause. And then: "It seems so," Narcissa breathed into her hair.

Lucius pulled his wand, cast the charm again, and watched as the same results happened.

A buzz from Draco's wand. "2:10," he said.

Lucius stood abruptly from the bed, looking down at her, and then up to Draco. "You won't be able to contact me if there's an issue."

The light from the glass jar in Draco's palm cast eerie shadows across Lucius's face, and she watched his throat move and his lips part in unspoken words. "You'll hear from me soon." He turned and exited through the fireplace without a backward glance.

With a wave, Narcissa lit the sconces low. She slid off the bed and gathered the ritual candles. "I apologize for all this fuss, Hermione, dear," she said, still not looking at her. "Get some rest. We'll talk in the morning." She sent Draco a stern look before leaving, the door clicking softly.

Hermione took a few breaths before she jolted upright. She sat in a bed in a white gown, blood from her chest dripping on the sheets, and stared at Draco Malfoy, who held her virginity in his hands.

The relief on his face dissipated, and he paled as looked at her. He placed the jar delicately on her bedside table.

"This should stay here." He swallowed. "It would… it can catch quite a price on the Black Market, so it's best to keep it hidden in your room."

She blinked at the light, still the brightest source in the room, even with the sconces lit and the fireplace back to roaring. She wondered if she should feel different.

"I apologize for the suddenness," he said, shifting his weight. "I was only notified yesterday afternoon. And the spell required my father, and I wasn't even sure if I could—"

"I want to see your research." She tore her eyes from the ball of light and looked up to him. "I want to read up on the spell."

He nodded, eyes distant but directed at the jar. "Of course. Tomorrow, after they—"

She scowled. "Now. I'm awake. You're awake." She stumbled out of bed, the long silk nightdress twisting around her legs in an awkward constriction. Unraveling it brought her close to him.

He glanced quickly down to the cut on her chest and then at her face. "You should get your rest."

"Give me the book," she demanded.

He was always keeping information from her, especially if it pertained to her directly. Irritation sharpened and bubbled in her chest.

Extending the book to her, he watched as she grabbed it and flipped to the marked pages.

It was still in German.

"Translation Spell, please," she snapped.

His wand tapped the pages, shifting the letters into English.

She took deep breaths, focusing on the words as they arranged themselves. It was done. There was nothing she could do to change what had happened or how it had happened. She just needed the specifics.

It was a journal. A wizard's entry from the 1200s, detailing a ritual to save his daughter's "purity" from evil spirits.

Two candles. Two parents. The mother cleanses, the father bleeds her.

She slammed the book closed, cheeks burning in anger and embarrassment. She pivoted to Draco, ready to release her pent up rage.

A warm hand dropped on her shoulder. She looked up and found him staring down at the blood dripping from the slice over her heart. His wand raised, and he muttered a spell to sew the skin back together. His eyes didn't leave her chest as she felt the cut heal.

His frown drew her eyes down. Just below his hand, a thin white scar crossed her heart.

"Magical wound," she whispered, temporarily distracted. "The scar will remain."

When she glanced back at him, his lips were pressed together, displeased. He looked away from her skin, and she remembered her anger.

"What if it didn't work," she asked, voice thin.

He stepped back from her and ran his hand through his hair. "Then I'd think of something else. A different spell."

She wondered at what point he would have come to her room, held her down on the bed, and penetrated her.

Minutes before the "visitors" arrived? Or perhaps he'd rather let them all die instead.

"And if you couldn't find another spell? When would you have consulted me and my opinion on the matter?"

He blinked at her before looking away to her bookshelves. "I was hoping I could find something like a glamor. Something cast to deceive the Detection Spell." He swallowed thickly. "I was hoping—"

"You were hoping I'd never have to know," she finished for him. Her skin buzzed with anger. "To cast a spell and brush it under the rug."

His lips pressed together tightly. "Do you not understand that we could be under investigation? By order of the Dark Lord, you are being examined tomorrow morning, and we have no idea why—"

"I understand perfectly, thank you," she spat. "I also understand that you had twelve hours in which you could have told me what was going on"—he took a breath to interrupt—"to inform me of the problem so that we might be able to come up with a solution together, but instead you chose to surprise me—"

"My family is in jeopardy, Granger—"

"And you're blaming me for that—?"

"Sometimes I have to act without your approval to do what's best for my family! All four of us!"

Her lips opened in a silent gasp.

His eyes widened as he seemed to realize what he'd just said. His jaw snapped shut, horror dawning over his features. Before she could press him further, he turned on his heel, dashing for the door.

Hermione gaped at the empty doorway for several long moments before sitting down on the corner of her bed. She stared at the fluttering light in a jar on her nightstand, listening to the echo in her ears of him calling her family.

~*~

At seven, Draco knocked on her bedroom door.

"They've arrived." His voice was flat. And his eyes were cold.

She had been dressed for hours, unable to sleep. It seemed the same for him. Both of them resigned to whatever fate awaited them.

Pulling her bedroom door closed behind her, she followed him down the stairs and to the drawing room.

Always the drawing room.

As he pushed open the door, he took her elbow in a firm grip, tugging her through the threshold behind him.

She cataloged the room quickly. Narcissa. Two women in Mediwitch robes she didn't recognize. And turning to greet them, a smug leer on his face, was Dolohov.

Her feet stumbled, and her stomach tightened before she cast her gaze down to the floor.

Draco's steps slowed, but he gave away no other reaction.

"Dolohov," he greeted.

"Apologies for being so early, Malfoy," Dolohov said without a hint of remorse. "But your mother tells me you're early risers here at the Manor." He smiled at her and Draco. "Thank you for your hospitality, Narcissa," he said with a wink.

Narcissa stepped forward. "Of course, Antonin." A thin smile pasted on her face. "And I'd prefer if you called me Mrs. Malfoy."

Hermione's eyes turned down to the stone floor. Her skin was cold, and her breath was shallow.

"What's this about?" Draco asked. He crossed his arms over his chest, shifting in front of her.

"Yaxley and I have been tasked to check in on the Lots. There've been a few issues, and the Dark Lord has asked us to follow up." His voice scratched down her spine.

One of the Mediwitches conjured an examination table. The other approached her with a hospital gown and silently gestured toward a conjured privacy stall. They'd been silenced.

Draco gripped her upper arm before she could step away from him. "Is this really necessary?"

"The Dark Lord wishes us to be thorough, Malfoy."

Hermione stared at her shoes as she followed the witch to the privacy curtains. Before she could disappear behind them, Dolohov said, "No need for all that, is there? Nothing I haven't seen before."

Her skin shivered and her mouth tried to swallow. Her eyes unfocused, remembering the showers at the Ministry. She thought she'd closed that book weeks ago, but it fluttered open at her feet. She summoned her magic and focus to slam it closed.

It was silent in the drawing room. She disappeared behind the curtain and listened to Narcissa start polite but stilted conversation. Her hands tugged her jumper up. Her fingers unbuttoned her trousers. And in a distant memory, she heard the echo of water against tile. She felt his black eyes on her naked body.

A pair of hands reached for her back, and she jumped, gasping. The hands pulled away as Hermione jerked. It was just the Mediwitch behind her, trying to help her tie the laces of the gown.

"Sorry," Hermione whispered.

She padded out to the table, thinking of cold black marble in the Ministry.

Dolohov's eyes were on her as she slid up to the table.

"Looks like you learned how to play nice after all, Mudblood."

"I'll ask you not to speak to my Lot," said Draco coldly. "You may address me if you have a direct order for her."

Hermione lay back, her mind numb. Instead of a high arched ceiling with chandeliers, she could only see a low lamp, black ceilings.

She breathed deep, pulling air into her empty lungs. A lake with still waters.

"What kind of issues?" Narcissa asked. "What's wrong with the other Lots?"

The Mediwitches hovered over her, silently casting several scans. She watched the familiar Virginity Detection scan wash over her, finding nothing.

"They weren't properly sterilized," Dolohov said.

And Hermione felt the room shake, quivering before her eyes.

A thick silence as the Mediwitches tested her.

The girls were becoming pregnant. She wasn't the only one whose fertility had been spared.

"This is unnecessary then," Narcissa said, voice slightly rising. "I can tell you that she hasn't bled since she's been here."

Hermione's eyes shut, and she felt her throat close.

She'd stopped menstruating when she was on the run with Harry and Ron. Her body had been too stressed, too underfed. Even now, with the comforts of Malfoy Manor and one working fallopian tube, she hadn't begun to bleed again.

Her chest shook.

She was going to have it ripped from her again. This possibility. This small chance of a future.

"Let's see then."

Hermione felt the Mediwitch's wand tap against her left hipbone. A dim red light appeared from her wand. She switched to Hermione's other side, and with a tap, a bright green illuminated the witch's face.

A pause, like skipping a step on the stairs. She felt every eye in the room on her waist. She didn't dare look to the Malfoys.

And then a sharp, "Ha!" cracked from Dolohov's throat. He chuckled, and the room shook with it. "Three months with a fertile slut and she's not knocked up? You check to see if your boys swim, Malfoy? With me, Mudblood, you'd have triplets by now—"

"That's enough, Antonin," Narcissa hissed. "Please remember your manners while you're in my house."

"Your house. The 'lord of the manor is gone, ain't he?" A stunned silence before Dolohov turned back to the Mediwitch. "Go on then."

Hermione braced herself for the wrenching pain she'd felt the last time her tubes had been severed. She looked past the arm of the Mediwitch toward the ceiling and took a shuddering breath, focusing on anything but the image of children with her curls and grey eyes—

"Don't—" A cleared throat. "She's my property. Don't I get a say here?"

Hermione swallowed, blinking rapidly. A thick silence fell like snow.

"All Mudbloods are sterilized." A pause. "Why, Malfoy? You want pups?"

"Of course not." Draco's voice was clipped. "I would just like all procedures cleared with me—"

"By order of the Dark Lord, I am sterilizing the Mudblood in your possession, Malfoy."

Hermione could see the faint green light over her hip fading, winking out of existence.

Her limbs were heavy. She felt cold and useless. Pain pricked behind her eyelids.

It would all be over soon.

From the corner of her eye, the Mediwitch lifted her wand, grim resignation in her face as she prepared to cast—

BANG!

Hermione jolted, springing to her side and curling away from the danger. She felt a hand on her waist, and she jerked. Turning to see Draco standing up against the table, neck craned behind him — staring at Narcissa's smoking wand.

With a flourish, the Mediwitches were disarmed, terror in their eyes.

Hermione sat up, looking around Draco's shoulders. Dolohov lay crumpled against the opposite wall, head lolling to the side.

"Draco, dear," Narcissa hummed, voice low and dark. "Collect all three wands." Narcissa's eyes were on fire, magic crackling from her skin.

In a flash, Draco was gone, following the sounds of clattering sticks against stone.

"Hermione, please return to your room," she said with an air of cool authority Hermione had never heard from her. "Your examination has concluded."

Narcissa held her wand on Dolohov's unconscious form, watching for movement. Draco returned to her side, looking pale.

Hermione slid off the table onto shaking legs. "What are you going to do?" she croaked.

"A simple Memory Charm on all three should do the trick," Narcissa said. "Mippy!"

The elf snapped into existence. Hermione jumped at the sound.

"Take Hermione to her room and then return."

And before she could ask another question, the elf took her wrist, and she was in her room. Mippy was gone again before Hermione could form words.

She brought her hands to her stomach, the hospital gown scratchy against her skin.

The terror that had frozen her upon seeing Dolohov's leer and the Mediwitch's wand drained from her veins until a slow dripping serenity surrounded her.

Once more, she'd been saved. Narcissa Malfoy had attacked one of the Dark Lord's most trusted followers to protect her from being sterilized.

Hermione braced herself on the back of her armchair.

Mippy popped into her room again with wide eyes, carrying her discarded clothing. "Miss! I needs your gown!"

She stripped, mind too numb to feel shame, and traded the gown for her garments. Mippy disappeared.

She stood alone in her room, breathing in the silence before beginning to dress. As she pulled up her trousers and clasped her bra, her mind started to tumble.

Her door slammed open, and she gripped her jumper to her chest. Draco stepped in, eyes skating quickly across her skin, before turning abruptly to give her privacy. "Are you alright?"

She couldn't think of a suitable answer, so her mind jumped elsewhere. "It will have to be a very strong Memory Charm," she said, voice trembling as she pulled her jumper over her head. "Replacing the memory with something different entirely."

"Mother has it under control."

She nodded quickly, trying to focus. He checked to make sure she was entirely decent before stepping into the room.

"You're alright?" he asked again.

"Why did she do that? That was… beyond stupid, really."

He swallowed and met her eyes. "She cares about you."

A warmth spread over her, from her chest outwards. She felt the full events of the day return to her. It seemed he was doing the same — his eyes over her shoulder, caught on the glowing white light in a jar.

"I won't apologize for finding the ritual," he said, looking back at her. "But I will apologize for not telling you sooner."

"I could have helped you."

"I know."

"But you didn't want me to," she surmised.

"I didn't want you worrying about Plan B."

Hermione swallowed. She wondered what she would have done. If she had hours and hours sitting next to him in the library researching ancient spells, squirming at the thought of needing to do it the "easy" way… Would she have just turned to him at midnight and kissed him?

Would he have let her?

She cleared her throat. "You treat me like a child who needs protection," she said softly. "And I don't like it. It makes me feel even more useless than I already do."

His jaw clenched. She continued, finding a fire inside of her that had been born at Edinburgh as the cannons fired.

"We can help each other. Already, I am assisting you with any suspicions of your behavior. I can help with other things if you just tell me what they are." She held his eyes, and she watched them flash quickly before returning to grey. "And I need your help as well. But first, I need to know there will be no more secrets between us."

He was still. "No more secrets," he repeated, like testing the words in his mouth.

"No more waking me at two in the morning with a ritual from the Middle Ages. No more stealing my hair for Polyjuice potions. No more tugging me away from Edinburgh because there's a catastrophe in the courtyard you forgot to inform me of."

There was pink on his cheeks, and tension in his arms.

"No more secrets," he said, almost daring her in his tone. He stepped into her, eyes dark and dangerous. "Tell me what he did to you."

She blinked, her mind crisscrossing in different directions. "Who?"

"Dolohov," he whispered, his eye twitching.

Hermione felt like a bucket of water had crashed down on her. "Oh." She frowned, distracted from her purposes by his strange question. "Just threats. He made it clear that he had a special interest in me."

Draco's face was impassive. There was no need to tell him about the showers, or his hand between her legs. Certain things couldn't be erased.

She stepped closer to him. He eyed her in acceptance, and she pushed on, trying again to get an answer to the only question that mattered. "Why am I here?"

He blinked, looking away from her quickly. His lips pressed together. "No more secrets," he mumbled. "But anything but that."

Rooted to the floor in front of him, she felt the disappointment twist her stomach. She thought again to the picture of her in his closet drawers. The possibility that she was being kept safe as a bargaining chip should the Order revive.

Narcissa's actions today could have multiple intentions…

We kept Hermione Granger alive and unharmed.

She nodded, filing this away. Burying her irrational sadness. "I need to speak to Cho."

He frowned. "Chang?"

She lifted a brow like he did. "Do you know another Cho?"

He narrowed his eyes at her in annoyance.

"At Edinburgh. Can you arrange it?" she asked.

He stared at her, taking in her face, her curls, her eyes. "Perhaps. Why?"

She pressed her lips together. No more secrets. "I have something to tell you about the Carrow Girls and their collars."

Silence hung in the room, thick and heavy like a cloak. Draco's eyes flickered between Hermione's eyes and her lips, as though he couldn't believe the words that had emerged from them over the past hour.

He'd been quiet as she spilled her secrets, one after another. The note from the strawberry-blonde. Charlotte. The grape between Cho's painted lips, and what it meant.

Apart from a sharp breath or two, he'd done nothing but stare as she'd listed the facts and shared her suspicions. But now that she'd finished, his eyes on her felt even more intense, and her sense of calm logic was slipping away from her.

When she could bear it no longer, she cleared her throat. Loudly. He blinked, as if snapping out of a trance.

"Well?"

He scratched the back of his head. "Right. That was…a lot, Granger."

She glared at him. "'A lot?' That's all you have to say?" Draco opened his mouth, but settled on a shrug. "Never mind," she huffed, crossing her arms. "Are you going to help me or not?"

A pause as he frowned at her, mind working. "You want me to arrange a private audience with Cho Chang."

"Yes."

"Knowing full well what the risks are if you're caught."

"Yes."

His scowl deepened. "And why can't you just pass her a bloody note?"

"It wouldn't fit. And it's far too dangerous."

"Now you're worried about how dangerous this all is? Every note you've passed would have gotten you killed—"

"This is different." She took a deep breath. "If this falls into the wrong hands, getting killed is the least of my concerns."

His eyes flashed as he took a step closer. "What is this information that's apparently worth more than your life, then?"

Hermione blinked at him. "Well, I can't very well tell you that."

A muscle twitched in his jaw, and she watched his throat swallow. "Granger, just an hour ago you were spilling all your machinations and theories, begging for no secrets between us—"

"Begging?"

"—and now we're back to it again?"

"Malfoy, you're in the Dark Lord's inner circle—"

His expression made the words die in her throat.

"And?" His voice was low as he stepped closer, looming over her. "What of it?"

She swallowed thickly. "And if there's one secret I have to protect at all costs, this is it."

"We'll both be dead if it gets to that point, so I fail to see the difference."

"Is that all that matters to you?" She lifted her chin, meeting his eyes. "Surviving at any cost to those left behind?"

He scoffed, but said nothing. She could see his pupils blooming as he stared back at her, and her stomach flipped.

"I have to get her this information, Draco," she said softly. "I'm not asking you to agree with me, but I am asking you to respect me on this. If your mind is read—"

He huffed and turned away. "That won't be a problem."

She scowled at his back. "Why? Because you're so advanced at Occlumency?"

"Yes," he replied simply.

She bristled at his overconfidence. "Sorry, but even if you were capable of fending off an attack from Voldemort himself, I wouldn't risk it. Now, can you get me alone with Cho or not?"

He sent her a glare — so reminiscent of how he would look at her over his cauldron during Potions class when she beat him to an answer.

"I can contact Mulciber about a Share."

Her lips parted, her heart pounding in her ears. He'd agreed. He was going to help her, by— "A 'Share?'"

"Yes. It's…" He looked away from her. "... Exactly what it sounds like, but with large sums of Galleons attached. Mulciber is liberal about Sharing Chang. I've heard she's been lucrative for him."

Hermione's eyes pricked, and she blinked at the ceiling until the stinging passed. She glanced back down to see Draco looking at her bedposts, calculating.

"And you're infamously closed to Sharing, isn't that right?"

His eyes snapped to her, a low-burning fire behind them. "Yes."

"But will it be strange to them? If this is your first time requesting a Share?"

He seemed to consider for a moment. "No. Chang played Seeker against me for several years. It could be said that I'd like a bit of revenge. I'll ask Mulciber for a private booth for the three of us in the Lounge."

"Excellent," said Hermione, wringing her hands while her brain whirred. "And then you'll excuse Cho and I to speak—"

"No," he cut in. "Granger, that won't be possible. I cannot leave either of you unattended."

She spun to him. "Only for five minutes—"

"No."

"Three!"

"Absolutely not. The girls cannot be left alone at Edinburgh." He rolled his jaw. "Look, if you're so worried about your bloody secret, I can cast a soundproof barrier once we're inside—"

"That's not what I'm worried about." Hermione bit her lip. "Cho can't know that you're amenable to this. If she is caught, and her mind read, you and your parents would be exposed. It's an unnecessary risk."

Draco's eyes were hot on hers, and she felt her cheeks flush.

"I disagree," he said at last. "Violating protocol is an enormous risk. If anyone catches us, I won't be able to talk my way out of it—"

"Pretend it's part of your fantasy."

"My — my what?" he sputtered.

"Oh please, Malfoy." Hermione rolled her eyes at him. "You're an eighteen-year-old boy. I'm sure you can think of some reason you might enjoy two scantily-clad girls being alone together for three minutes."

He opened his mouth to argue, but it seemed his throat had gone quite dry. He coughed and looked away, blushing pink on his cheekbones. He turned for the door, wishing her a good day and mumbling something about checking on her that evening.

~*~

But he wouldn't be able to check on her that evening.

In the late afternoon, Narcissa brought by a hasty note scribbled on the back of an envelope, stating that he'd been called away for an indefinite amount of time. He wasn't sure where yet, but he'd send an update when he could. He mentioned he'd already sent off the request they had discussed.

Narcissa eyed the unsealed (and therefore un-private) envelope with feigned suspicion and said, "Did he mention anything about when he'd be back?"

"Er, no, he didn't." Hermione folded the envelope into quarters, tucking it into her trouser pocket. She turned to Narcissa, and as their eyes met, the closed book on the shelf in her mind that contained the events of the morning trembled. Hermione swallowed, fiddling with her sleeve. "Narcissa, I should have sought you out immediately after Dolohov left. I don't know how I can ever repay you, but—"

"There is no debt, Hermione," she said firmly, but kindly. A soft smile across her features. "I take care of my own."

Hermione stood stunned, watching as Narcissa took a turn about the room, trailing her delicate fingers over the furniture.

"I had difficulty bearing children myself," she said. Hermione blinked at her. "There was a time where Lucius and I…well, we thought there was a curse on us. Punishing us." Narcissa turned to her, her eyes drifting over Hermione's shoulder. "Draco was a very difficult pregnancy. He was our fourth try — three stillbirths before him." Her eyes glazed with the memory before blinking it away. "I'd always wanted a large family, but once we were safe home with Draco, Lucius and I agreed that we would stop at one."

Narcissa Malfoy's eyes turned to her, something fierce burning there.

"I hope one day you have children, Hermione, if that is what you want. I hope it is a choice you get to make."

Hermione nodded, a sudden burning in her throat. Her hand had found its way inside her pocket, and her fingers tightly clutched the parchment there.

She took in the gentle creases around Narcissa's eyes as she told her to call if she needed anything, and quietly excused herself.

She cares for you, Draco had told her.

Whatever had first brought her to Malfoy Manor — whatever schemes or calculations — Hermione couldn't help but believe him in that.

~*~

Draco still wasn't home the following Friday, and Hermione told herself that her anxiety and disappointment were due to the delayed meeting with Cho. He'd sent a letter addressed to Narcissa that morning, explaining that he was on Groix, an island just off the coast of northwestern France. He expected to be sent elsewhere in Europe soon — "nowhere worse than Italy" — and wouldn't be back for another week at least. A postscript at the end asked her to please "let the household know" about his continued absence, as he "didn't want the elves to fuss."

Hermione found herself with the letter around mid-day, tucked beneath the napkin on her lunch tray. It was one of three notes she'd received when Draco had departed unexpectedly — the first from when he'd gone to Italy, the second from the day he'd left last week, and now this one. For reasons she allowed only herself, she folded each of them up, and set them close to her bedside in the empty jewelry box.

~*~

It was three weeks until Draco returned. Three Fridays without visiting Edinburgh. Three Fridays where anyone could be attempting to communicate with her.

She read the Prophet obsessively, looking for anything in Skeeter's propaganda that could be useful, as well as looking for any mention of France or another country that might hint at Draco's whereabouts. After lunch, she'd head to the library to research, or bring one of her history books to the observatory. In the evenings, she'd spend another hour or two on Occlumency.

The tattoos were still eluding her. She was convinced that they were based on borrowed spells, but she'd had frustratingly little progress with the books selected by the library catalog. Her next and final book with reference to magical slavery was a volume on the history of magical North America. And once she was through with it, she'd have to think of another plan.

Exactly seven days into August, Hermione realized she'd forgotten Harry's birthday. When she saw the date on the Prophet pages reading August 7th, she gasped, her hand clutching her heart as if a gunshot had gone off somewhere. She'd been too distracted on the 31st, focused on the letter with Draco's updates.

She cried herself to sleep that night, and spent eight hours Occluding the next day. Four days later, she crawled under the covers and let herself sing happy birthday to Ginny before succumbing to Mippy's Sleeping Draught.

Draco finally returned on a Monday in mid-August, looking pale and weary. He walked straight into Hermione and Narcissa's breakfast, kissed his mother's cheek, and sat with a flourish to his napkin as the two women sat stunned.

Narcissa recovered quickly, asking him short, simple questions, to which he would nod or reply with a clipped sentence or two.

But as he stirred the honey into his tea, his eyes drifted up to her, studying her face.

And Hermione felt breathless as her pulse fluttered, realizing just how much she'd missed him.

~*~

She came to his bedroom that afternoon. He opened the door in the middle of her first knock. Hermione stared up at him, overwhelmed at being so close to him again. He was taller than she'd remembered, even leaning against the doorway. Her lips parted to ask what she'd come for, but her mind remained stubbornly blank.

A ghost of a smirk crept over his face. "Come to gape at me, Granger?"

She snapped her mouth shut. "Hardly," she retorted, with a weak roll of her eyes. "I'm all business. I was just coming by to see—"

"I haven't forgotten about Cho, no. You'll see her this Friday. The details have already been arranged."

Hermione blinked at him. "Good. Excellent." She squared her shoulders. "I also wanted to see if—"

"Seven o'clock." He raised a brow at her expression. "I assume you want to practice tonight?"

"I — Yes, I do." He'd already anticipated what she needed from him. The thought made her stomach flip.

"Alright then," he said, pushing off the doorway. "Meet me here a few minutes before."

She nodded and took a step backward. "Thank you," she said softly, her eyes fixed on his collar.

His throat bobbed as he nodded. "Anything else?"

"It's… good to have you back, Draco." She rushed away before he could comment, and before she could say another stupid thing.

That evening, he led her to a smaller sitting room, away from Narcissa's prying eyes. Hermione was still embarrassed from her outburst earlier, so she sat quietly on his lap for the most part, watching while he ate ravenously. The sight of him devouring his potatoes and roast was oddly satisfying, so she didn't push for any questions that might disrupt his appetite.

On Tuesday, she tried kissing his neck again. Besides a quick breath and a pause of his fork, he let her. She also learned why he'd been in Groix. The Order had been rebuilding in France and had constructed an Apparition Line of their own. Draco had been assigned to cut off suppliers trying to pass the Line by water. Nott Sr. had been assigned to break through the Line's defenses, but still hadn't managed it.

On Wednesday, she pulled out of him that there had been rioting in Spain, which the Dark Lord had overtaken rather sloppily in his haste to isolate France. Draco and a dozen others had been dispatched to control the situation.

After dinner, she licked a stripe up his throat, beginning at his clavicle. Her fingers carded through his hair as she worried his earlobe between her lips, embarrassed to catch her breath hitching right in his ear. She listened to him swallow a large gulp of red wine, and when she wiggled closer, he shifted beneath her with a "That's enough, Granger," before tossing back the rest of his wine and removing her from his lap.

On Thursday, she drained her wine, took a deep breath, and folded herself against his body as close as space would allow.

"Okay?" she murmured. His arm wrapped around her back in reply, giving up the pretense of eating altogether. She listened to his throat click as he swallowed his wine, then tried turning her chest to face his, pressing closer.

"You should eat," she said quietly. "We're going to Edinburgh tomorrow, and we have to act normally." A long pause before he nodded, picking up his fork and knife. She watched as he began cutting his steak, then slowly leaned forward to brush lazy kisses over his throat and jaw.

A sharp intake of breath, and Draco dropped his cutlery. His hands moved to her hips — still turned to the side — and slid her slightly away from him. She bit her lip as she wobbled, feeling off-balance. She wound her arms around his shoulders to steady herself, suppressing the urge to squeak as her breasts grazed his chest through her thin shirt — and another shift from under her, pushing her even further down his thighs.

Hermione frowned, still unsteady and now irritated. She was just pressed up against him a minute ago, and now he was being stubborn. Determined, she scooted closer again, and his legs jumped under hers. A sharp exhale, a squeeze of his hands on her waist—

And then she was promptly upended, falling over his knees in a heap on the floor. She yelped.

"Fucking hell, Granger—"

"Ow! That hurt, Malfoy!"

He glared down at her, furious and oddly hunched in his chair. "You're a bloody idiot," he growled, before racing out of the room and away from her.

~*~

On Friday, after taking a light dinner in her room, Hermione washed and wrapped herself in a fluffy robe. She examined the utensils and brushes, trying to remember how she'd used them a month ago.

She sat at her vanity, preparing to apply something gooey to her eyelids, when a tapping at her door paused her. Tugging at the tie to her robe, Hermione padded across her room and cracked the door open.

Draco stood there with his hands in his pockets, an anxious expression on his face. His eyes roved over her robe once.

"Are we leaving already?"

"No," he said, voice scratchy. He cleared his throat. "You have a visitor. If you'll allow it."

Hermione blinked at him. "A visitor?"

A voice from behind Draco — "Everyone is so fucking polite in this house."

And then Pansy Parkinson was shoving her way around his shoulder with, "Leave us alone for an hour" — a quick assessing glance to Hermione — "or three."

Hermione gaped at her as Pansy slammed the door in Draco's face and turned to her with a catlike smile.

"Pansy, you can't just—"

"Merlin, Granger. Your hair is outrageous."

And then Pansy Parkinson's hands were in her hair, twisting her curls as she babbled about mousse and hydrating potions. She ran her fingers across Hermione's cheeks, tutting over her skin and brows.

Hermione tried to protest amidst the onslaught. "Pansy—"

"You have excellent pores, but if you don't start moisturizing you'll look ninety at your fortieth. I have Harper Hoddy's Hush cream — you'll use it twice a day for the next—"

"Pansy." Hermione stopped her with firm hands on Pansy's thin wrists. "What are you doing here?"

Pansy tilted her head back at her. "Saving you from yourself, Granger." She lifted a brow. "Or from what you think qualifies as 'makeup and hair.'"

Hermione blinked at her, but before she could make total sense of it, Pansy was dragging her into her bathroom suite and plopping her on the chair in front of the mirror. She frowned at the mess Hermione had left out. "You know, it never ceases to astonish me that you've made it this far in life understanding nothing about makeup."

Hermione snorted. "It's simple. I don't care."

Pansy froze, then spun around to face her. Something icy in her eyes. "And how is that working out for you these days, Granger?" she asked sweetly. "Does that wonderful brain of yours get you everything you need in this new world?"

Hermione said nothing, the tips of her ears burning in irritation. She was right. Her cleverness would only get her so far.

"Now we don't have much time, so listen carefully." Pansy snatched up a thin makeup brush and waved it in her face. "This is not a shadow brush!" She slammed it down and picked up another brush. "This is a shadow brush."

Hermione stared at the two brushes — identical in her eyes — and then glanced to Pansy's irate face. Pansy took a deep, cleansing breath.

"It's alright." A cool smile. "That's why I'm here."

She pulled a pouch off her shoulder and opened it on the vanity. Creams, powders, gels, and brushes rolled out.

"But why?" Hermione found her voice to ask. "Why would you come to help?"

Pansy spun to her with a tube of something. "Because you looked atrocious the last time I saw you at Edinburgh, Granger," she replied flatly. "Like a child had dipped their face in a clown's makeup bag. And as amusing as it is to see you make a fool of yourself, I'd rather Draco not suffer the consequences of it."

Hermione frowned at her in the mirror. "Not every girl is done up and dressed to the nines—"

Pansy dragged the chair to face her with surprising strength. "Not every girl fetched sixty-five thousand Galleons," she said, leaning down to meet Hermione levelly. "Not every girl is on the arm of the Malfoy heir. Trust me when I say that you need to look and act the part. If you can't maintain the lie, Granger," Pansy said, voice sharpening, "you'll endanger the entire Malfoy family."

Hermione pressed her lips together. "I'm well aware of that, thanks."

Pansy stood upright, a bright smile breaking across her lips. "Good." She pushed a tube of something into Hermione's hands. "Now moisturize."

Brushing the cream over her skin, Hermione watched Pansy sort out her makeup kit, her black bob swaying with every turn of her head. Her eyes turned down to Pansy's left forearm. The flesh was mangled and silver-white. From the acid that Zabini had used.

This was an opportune moment to ask her about the tattoo.

"Did it hurt?" she asked quietly.

"Don't be an idiot, Granger. You heard me screaming. Now go ahead and ask the real question you want to ask. Don't pussyfoot around me."

Pansy came at her with a large makeup brush at that point, promptly covering Hermione's embarrassed flush with a beige goo.

"What do you know about the tattoos?" Hermione asked, once the brush was away from her mouth.

"Absolutely nothing." Pansy dipped the brush again. "All I know is that I can come and go as I please."

"Because you're 'dead.'"

Pansy's lips twitched. "Well, yes. That does tend to be helpful."

Pansy continued in silent concentration, dabbing at her face and smudging powders onto her cheeks. Hermione felt the same as she did in fourth year, when Parvati and Lavender fussed over her before the Yule Ball.

She heard an echo of a scream bouncing off black tile floors as Parvati was strangled around a corner — Luna shouting—

She blinked, refocusing and tuning back into Pansy, who was now grumbling about how her pale complexion was eating up all her bronzer.

"You said you envied me. In the Ministry."

Pansy didn't look up from her palette.

"You said you were envious of 'what my life would be,'" Hermione said. "What did you mean?"

Pansy laughed, a bark of glee that made Hermione jump in her seat. Pansy looked around the bathroom suite, gesturing with her brush.

"Do you think any other girl has any of this, Granger? Do you think the rest of them sleep soundly at night tucked between their twelve pillows, unafraid of a visitor in the middle of the night?"

A hot wave of guilt and sorrow bubbled in Hermione's belly, but she shoved it aside.

"You knew, even then, that Draco was going to buy me."

Pansy stabbed a new brush into a powder and hummed in confirmation.

Hermione took a breath, heart pounding. "Do you know why?"

Pansy turned to her, fringe swaying delicately. Her eyes took in Hermione's, studying her, before narrowing like a predator.

"I do," said Pansy, with a twist to her lips. And then, "Eyes closed, Granger," ending the conversation.

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but Pansy was already coming at her with the brush. Hermione closed her eyes, puffing out her breath in defeat.

Once Pansy began attacking her eyelids, Hermione decided to try her next line of questioning.

"Will you be at Edinburgh again? As Giuliana?"

"I will. For the foreseeable future."

Hermione frowned, watching Pansy blend colors together in her palette. Would she always be forced into other girls' bodies, watching from the sidelines as somebody else? It was unfair to ask her to take Giuliana's place. Unfair to both them.

And as that fire sparked in her, Hermione thought of the red nails and red lips her own body had worn while driven by Pansy. She'd clearly done it as a favor to Draco, just like she was here now. He never should have asked her.

Pansy was shaping her brows when Hermione found her voice again.

"About the night you took my body to Edinburgh," she said. Pansy paused over her left brow. "I was quite shocked, and frankly felt quite violated with that discovery. But I realize that you were just trying to help a friend." She dropped her eyes to her hands, her bare fingernails. "I want you to know that I don't hold it against you."

Pansy was still. Hermione glanced up to see an arched brow directed down at her, and eyes as cold as ice.

"And what exactly am I apologizing for, Granger? For saving your arse? Both of yours?"

Hermione's brow furrowed. "I don't expect an apology. I know that you agreed when Draco asked you to go in my place—"

"You think Draco had the sense to suggest it?" Pansy smiled, low and catlike. "It was my idea, Granger. I was sick of hearing Blaise moan about how Draco was going to get himself killed. Someone had to take matters into their own hands."

Hermione stared at her. Pansy turned away, flicking her fringe out of her eyes and dabbing a sharp brush into a small jar.

"Sure, Granger. I accept your forgiveness. Please forgive me for seeing to it that you'll never have to experience that potion yourself. Or make a fool of yourself trying to handle a cock for the first time in your life with fifty drooling men watching. Forgive me for getting my lips wet so you could continue playing house with the Malfoys for a little while longer."

Pansy slammed the jar down on the counter and turned to her with the brush. She twirled it between her fingers, her eyes locked on Hermione. Hermione simply stared, closing her mouth slowly from where it had hung open.

"Do you still love him?" she finally whispered, breath tight in her chest.

Pansy's face broke into a sneer. "Don't be so sentimental, Granger." She grabbed Hermione's jaw a bit too roughly and lowered her brush to her eyelids. "There's no place for that here."

Hermione kept silent and still as Pansy finished her eyeshadow, and applied eyeliner and mascara. She examined Pansy's rounded nose and sharp eyes, her creamy skin and long neck, remembering how she used to stumble on Pansy and Draco in sixth year during Prefect rounds, pressing each other into corners or slipping behind statues — and the way Draco's thigh pushed between Pansy's as he kissed her.

Pansy started brushing dust over her face with a large brush. There were a million more questions she wanted to ask, and Hermione was about to break the silence when Pansy reached into her pocket and pulled out a wand.

Hermione's eyes widened, watching as Pansy used it to set the powders on her face. "How did you get a wand?"

"Just borrowing. Your hair needs magical assistance, Granger."

She watched the mirror in the corner of her eye as Pansy moved around her, using the wand like a curling iron on Hermione's hair. When she was finally finished, she grabbed the back of Hermione's chair, wrenching her toward the mirror so she could see herself.

Hermione was a shadow. A figment of someone's imagination. Her cheekbones shimmered and her eyes sunk back. Her brows were crisp and jaw sharp — just like Pansy's. Her curls danced around her face like a lion's mane.

"You hate it, I know," Pansy said, putting her things away with a flick of her wand. "But you'll have to bear it. Now let's take a look at your knickers." She waltzed out the bathroom door before Hermione's brain caught up.

"My — my knickers?"

She ran after her, still only in her robe. Pansy had flung the armoire doors open and was scrounging through its drawers.

"Merlin, are these McGonagall's underthings?" she murmured.

"Why do I need sexy knickers for tonight?" Hermione asked, an edge of panic in her voice.

"You should have sexy knickers for all the nights, Granger," Pansy said, holding up a pair to the light before scrunching her nose and tossing them back in the drawer. "Never underestimate how much power you can wield in a pair of sexy knickers." She blew out a frustrated breath before tilting her head back to the ceiling and calling, "Kreacher!"

Hermione's eyes popped when the crotchety old elf appeared in the middle of her bedroom.

"Miss Pansy," he croaked. His eyes roved over Hermione with a scowl. Her mouth fell open.

"I need the red knickers and bra in my drawers," said Pansy. "Quickly."

The elf popped away with a grumble. Hermione stared at the space he used to fill. She hadn't expected to see him again.

"But how did you—" She turned to Pansy to question it just as a pop! sounded, making her jump. A pair of red lacy knickers and a matching bra lay across the bed.

"Why is Kreacher obeying you? Where did you find him?"

"That's enough questions for one day, Granger. Now, strip!" The undergarments were shoved into her arms, and then Pansy was standing there waiting. "Oh, please. I've seen your body. I've been your body. Just get those on so we can fit this dress to you."

Hermione pulled the knickers on under the robe. "Dress?"

"I had the elves deliver it this morning."

Pansy reached inside the armoire and pulled out a silky red dress, short and low and tight. Hermione's hands paused in untying her sash.

"I… I can't wear that."

"And why the hell not?" Pansy snapped.

"Pansy, it's too much. The color is…and the cut…" She stammered while Pansy glared at her. "It will attract so much attention—"

"Have you heard nothing of what I've said? You are the 'Golden Girl.'" She lifted a brow. "You were deemed the most desirable. And now you're on the arm of the most important pure-blood heir — the youngest Death Eater." Pansy moved directly in front of her. "And you're telling me your place is in the background now?"

Hermione stared up at her, mouth slightly open, trying to form the words to explain her discomfort.

"Enough. Stop whining and put on your Gryffindor red," Pansy said.

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and drew a sharp breath. Pick your battles, she reminded herself. She took off her robe, clasped the bra, and let Pansy slide the dress over her torso, avoiding her eyes. It was a tight squeeze around her hips, and Pansy grinned as they let out a few seams.

"I meant what I said about your arse, Granger." Hermione blushed, and Pansy chuckled. "I miss it. Draco's never been as attentive to my arse and hips as when I was in your body."

Hermione's breath caught as a pleasant yet embarrassing heat slid through her veins. She looked down and met Pansy's smirk.

The clock chimed on her mantle, startling her. Ten o'clock already.

Pansy stood, grabbing a pair of golden heels. She cast a Comfort Charm on them that Hermione muttered a quiet "thanks" for. Hermione slid them on and locked the collar around her neck. Before she could walk to the door, Pansy stopped her.

She uncapped a lipstick, and held her jaw steady. Hermione jerked, realizing it was the same color Pansy had worn when she'd gone to Edinburgh in her body.

"Is that really necessary—"

"The lipstick is everything, Granger. Do you really think you can waltz out there in a red dress without red lips?" Pansy huffed. "Merlin, how you've gotten this far without me…"

Hermione rolled her eyes and let Pansy apply the lipstick, blotting when she demanded. She couldn't bear to look at herself in the mirror before the two of them moved downstairs. Pansy whispered instructions about not watching her shoes or fixing her posture, but all Hermione could focus on was the nervous energy buzzing in her veins — which promptly began to roar when she spotted Draco at the fireplaces.

His black robes, black trousers, black boots. His eyes trained on her legs as she descended. Hermione looked away, feeling warm all over. Pansy said her goodbyes and fixed a few of Hermione's stray curls. She'd meet them there with Blaise once she was Polyjuiced.

With a flash of green flames, she and Draco were left alone. When she looked at him again, she caught him staring at her face and hair before he turned and began leading them out.

She felt like a different person as she wobbled behind him. He paused for her at the bottom of the exterior stairs, and as she reached the last steps, his hand reached for hers to steady her. She looked at him quickly as her hand grasped his, and his gaze drifted across her neck before quickly looking away.

His hand dropped hers and they continued down the path.

They arrived to Edinburgh as they always did, through the gates and up the stairs to the Great Hall. But when the curtain pulled back at the entrance, it wasn't Charlotte's face that greeted them.

A tall girl with dark skin and a bright smile greeted them with champagne. Draco took two glasses from her, and Hermione could see the slightest bit of surprise on his face.

They entered the Great Hall. Hermione had never felt so exposed as she did now, in Pansy's dress. Men's eyes on her at every turn, dripping across her chest and dragging up her legs. She was a beacon in red, drawing every gaze to her. She lifted her chin, determined not to let her cheeks match her dress.

Her eyes caught Cho's from across the room. Cho lifted a brow, looking her up and down. She smiled before turning back to Mulciber.

That helped a little.

Draco chatted with several men throughout the room, stopping to ask after their wives, their estates. He steered her along, his hand on her back pulling her to his hip whenever a pair of wandering eyes got too close.

Nott Sr. stepped in their path just as Draco tried to guide her upstairs. He was well on his way to drunkenness, and Hermione thought of his failure in France.

"Ah, Draco. I have someone who wants to meet your Mudblood." He slurred his words, righting himself on his cane as he stumbled. An older gentleman with greying hair joined Nott at his side. "I believe you're familiar with Armando Santos, the new Spanish Minister."

Draco shook his hand. "Minister Santos. A pleasure to see you again. May I present to you Hermione Granger, my Lot," he said elegantly, though he slightly tightened his grip.

Hermione did her best to make eye contact and not react as two pairs of glazed eyes devoured her. Draco's hand on her hip steadied her.

"I'm quite impressed you were able to capture her," said Minister Santos, in a surprisingly deep voice. "I heard she was a clever little Mudblood."

"Not so clever after all," Nott Sr. said, chuckling into his scotch glass.

"Has she given you much trouble, young Malfoy?"

"In the beginning," Draco said smoothly. "Now she's learned a few lessons about how to remain comfortable."

Nott Sr. snorted. "Yes, I've heard she's quite 'comfortable.' Theo mentioned her private suite."

Hermione felt her blood chill.

"What can I say," Draco said with a smirk. "I like to be comfortable, too."

The men laughed. She felt Draco's chest rumble against hers, and her heartbeat calmed.

"Keep an eye on her, Malfoy," Santos said. "If any of these pets managed to escape, I'd put my gold on her."

Nott Sr. finished a large swig of scotch. "Not likely," he sang. Hermione's eyes snapped up to him. "The protections we have cannot be beat. These tattoos? Unbreakable."

Hermione's skin was pricking. The exact information she needed...

"Ah," said Minister Santos. "So these 'tattoos' cannot be broken, but the French Apparition Line can?" His eyes glinted cruelly as he watched the insult land.

"Precisely," Nott growled, displeasure with the turn of conversation evident on his face. "The magic is impenetrable.".

"Indeed." Minister Santos hid a smirk behind a long swig of scotch.

"We have gone further than anyone in history to secure our slaves!" Nott gestured to the whole room, sloshing his glass. "The Ancient Egyptians, the Portuguese. Not even the Scourers could succeed where we have!"

He was drawing attention, several nearby backs turned to see the commotion.

"Right you are, sir," Draco cut in, after giving Minister Santos a meaningful look. "Please excuse us, but we're late for dinner. Enjoy your visit, Minister." He quickly steered Hermione away.

And it all fell into place.

Nott Sr. had created the tattoos.

Hermione looked down, mind working quickly.

The Scourers.

She'd seen the term before. She was burning to get back to her room to investigate.

But one job at a time. She took a deep breath and turned her neck slowly as Draco guided her, eyes flitting to Cho.

Before long, Draco was leading her to the dining room. She cursed Pansy's name as she climbed the stairs ahead of him, wondering just how much the dress covered from that angle.

Harper's eyes popped at the sight of her, and Hermione struggled with the need to pull her dress up and down.

"Eyes up, Harper," Draco's voice snapped behind her.

They entered the dining room, and she heard the ambient noise cease as all eyes turned on them. Marcus Flint stood from his chair, as he always did when she entered the room — a display of mockery. But now his gaze slid over her in intense silence, until—

"Merlin, you're trying to kill us, Draco."

Montague laughed, running a hand through his hair. Goyle was turned to her with a wide, greedy expression on his face.

Draco slid behind her, his hands pressed lightly on her waist, his face over her shoulder. "Just reminding everyone what she's worth."

A shiver danced up Hermione's shoulders. He was echoing Pansy's words — it seemed she'd gotten to him as well. But in another life, if they were different people, it might have been a compliment.

Draco led her to their side of the table, interrupting her thoughts.

Blaise entered next, "Giuliana" trailing behind him. The table greeted them, but then Blaise caught sight of Hermione.

"Well, fuck," he laughed, eyes drifting down her body.

The boys laughed. Draco smirked. And before Hermione could take her position behind his chair, Draco was pulling her into his lap. She landed with a gasp. The conversation began, but most gazes were on them.

She was supposed to serve the wine and wait behind him.

Draco was changing the rules.

As Blaise took his chair next to Draco, Hermione glanced at Pansy. Her eyes ran approvingly over her hair and dress, but she was able to mask it through Giuliana's eyes as earnest curiosity.

The dress, Hermione was realizing, was not made to be sat in. She wasn't afraid of seams ripping, but the back of her dress…was no longer covering her backside. Thankfully, the front — while unnecessarily short — was still covering her, so hopefully, no one would be the wiser about the back.

Except for Draco. Her backside was bare on his thigh, except for the lacy red knickers.

Hermione tried not to squirm — she knew he hated it when she squirmed — but she shifted a bit, crossing and uncrossing her legs. A quick narrowed glare from Giuliana Bravieri settled her.

When it was time for the girls to pour the wine, Hermione simply reached for Draco's bottle from her position on his lap. The sense of decorum that was usually maintained for the first thirty minutes of dinner had dissolved completely, and the girls were sitting in laps as soon as the first wine glass was poured. Following her and Draco's lead.

Susan was accompanying Goyle again. Mortensen was back, looking rather sickly. Penelope with Flint, Carrow Girls with the rest. Theo Nott, who had been unusually silent thus far, was nuzzling the neck of a brunette with silky long hair over her silver collar. She brought his wine glass to his lips, and after he sipped deeply with eyes on her, he leaned in to kiss her, letting her taste the wine on his tongue.

Hermione felt heat crawling up her neck at the display, suddenly feeling like she was trespassing on their privacy. She turned to look at Draco, and found him studying Theo with narrowed eyes. He recovered and addressed the table.

"Where's Charlotte tonight?" He brought his wine to his lips.

Theo was first to respond, pausing his mouth on his girl's neck. "Minister Cirillo is here tonight. She requested Charlotte."

"The fuck?" Marcus exclaimed, jostling Penelope. "Charlotte can't be requested. I've been told explicitly—"

"Well, you don't have Germany in your back pocket, do you?" Theo smirked. "Minister Cirillo does."

Draco set his glass down. "Well, aren't you the little social butterfly, Theo." Theo scowled, and Blaise hid his laugh in Giuliana's shoulder. "What other gossip have you learned listening at daddy's door?"

"I don't need to be listening at doors," Theo snarled. "I know just as much as you do, Draco. Maybe more."

She felt Draco chuckle under her. And an idea struck in her mind, sharp as lightning: What did Theo know about his father's work with the tattoos?

Looking back to Theo, she found him glaring daggers at Draco before turning back to the table.

"The Dark Lord wants to hit France from all sides. Cirillo brought in the German Minister. Practically handed Germany to the Dark Lord," Theo said. "So the Carrows have been instructed to be especially accommodating whenever Cirillo visits Edinburgh. And tonight she wanted Charlotte." Theo took a deep sip from his glass, looking pleased with himself as the boys reacted to his information.

Draco was very stiff underneath her, and Hermione remembered the way Minister Cirillo had looked at her — had seemed disappointed that Draco wouldn't share her. She wasn't the Carrows' property, however. She could only pray that would be enough.

Hermione must have gone still as well, because suddenly Draco's hand was on her back, rubbing softly into her stiff shoulders. She jumped, and relaxed again.

The boys had transitioned into talking about Derrick's stepfather's new manor in Germany. She listened for more details over the course of the next hour, but as the wine bottles emptied, the room became less concerned with the political climate. Montague and Pucey argued about Quidditch while Flint whispered into Penelope's ear. Blaise, Draco, and Theo reminisced together about something from fourth year, but Theo kept getting distracted by the girl in his lap.

When it was time to transition into the Lounge, Hermione's heart began thumping in anticipation. As they walked through the doors to the Lounge, Hermione found that little had changed. There were still gambling tables, private booths, couches and plush armchairs, and dancing girls near the music. But she noticed that things seemed to be more discreet — no girls on their knees, no moaning from dark corners. If they wanted the evening to progress, the men would drag their girl into a private booth, locking the door behind them.

Draco settled into an armchair, dragging her down onto his knee. A Carrow Girl appeared with drinks before she'd even settled, and Draco took a glass that she knew he wouldn't bother sipping.

"Draco," Flint said, flopping down on the nearest couch. "I hear you have quite a night planned."

Draco looked over at him, lifting a brow. "Glad to hear Mulciber is just as loose-lipped as ever."

"You know," Flint began, draping an arm over Penelope, "the two of you can take Clearwater for a turn whenever you'd like. As long as you let me watch." His gaze slid up to Hermione and he winked at her.

"Your excuses to see my cock are getting lazier and lazier, Marcus," Draco hummed, and Flint laughed.

"Oi, Granger. You ever been with a bird before?" He wiggled his eyebrows at her. "Ever fumbled around in the Gryffindor dormitories?"

Hermione's teeth clenched together, refusing to respond.

Flint laughed. "It's very easy, Granger," he said, leaning in. "No work at all really. Just let Chang do the heavy lifting, and you can just lie there." He ran his tongue across his shiny new teeth. "Play to both of your strengths that way."

Before she could snap back, Draco's hand landed firmly on her waist, pulling her to lean against him. She tried to relax, but she was too anxious about her hemline.

She turned to whisper into Draco's ear, "How long until our meeting?"

His jaw brushed hers accidentally. "About fifteen minutes."

Hermione nodded, and turned back to inspect the room. Two Carrow Girls had come over and begun to dance in their section. Pucey and Montague were talking on the couch several yards away, their arms around their dates. Goyle was already dragging Susan to a private booth. Higgs' date was kissing his neck, her hand squeezing him over the front of his trousers as his eyes darted around nervously. And Theo Nott had his Carrow Girl straddling his lap, his hands roving over her waist and thighs as his kisses moved down her neck, starting to mouth at her breasts over the fabric of her dress.

Fifteen minutes of this. Hermione took a deep breath. This is what they'd been practicing for, right?

She turned back towards Draco's neck, and he leaned in as if she was going to whisper to him again. Her lips brushed softly over his pulse, and she felt his body tense before his muscles relaxed. The hand on her waist felt as heavy as lead.

Her hand came up to rest on his chest to steady herself, and she began to kiss his neck as she usually did during their practice sessions. She could feel his heartbeat pounding beneath her fingertips as she pressed soft kisses to his neck and jaw. Her tongue flicked out to taste him and she felt his ribcage contract. His hand shifted to her hip as she leaned closer, and he adjusted her in his lap, pushing her off a bit.

She pulled back to question him, but he was staring into his full glass of scotch. A quick look around confirmed that no one was watching them. Flint was focused on Penelope, kissing her slowly as he pressed their hips together. Montague had leaned his girl back across the arm of the couch and was mouthing at her neck. Theo had disappeared into a private booth.

In fact, Draco seemed to be the only male in the room not touching or kissing his Lot. Hermione frowned. She'd been so focused on getting Draco comfortable around her, she'd forgotten that owners usually were the ones to initiate contact. She needed to push him more next week.

A shadow crossed over them, and Hermione looked up to see Cho Chang smiling down demurely.

"Master Malfoy," she said, her voice low and velvety. "Where do you want me?"

Hermione blinked, feeling blood rush to her ears.

"We have a private booth," he said.

Draco shifted them to standing, steadying her on her heels with a hand on her waist. It brought her face to face with Cho. Her dark eyes twinkled as they ran over Hermione's face and hair.

"She's stunning, Master Malfoy," Cho said, like she was appraising a piece of art. "You dress her so beautifully."

Hermione felt her face heat. Cho's purr was odd, so different from the shy, tomboyish girl who used to outfly Harry on the Quidditch pitch with a ringing laugh. The girl who struggled not to cry all of Hermione's fifth year over the loss of Cedric.

Draco muttered a "thanks" and wrapped one arm around Hermione's waist, taking Cho's hand in the other. He led them around the corner, past the dancing girls and drinking men and couples on couches, to the last private booth on the left wall. They would have plenty of privacy in the corner, but this also meant every eye was on the three of them as they passed.

They had a plan. Hermione would suggest some alone time with Cho so they could "prepare" for him, Draco would agree, and he'd return two minutes later with an emergency that would bring an end to their sordid threeway.

But with every step they took, Hermione's heart beat more wildly, scared about the amount of time she had and nervous about Cho's part in all this. What if Cho had too many questions? What if she was too suspicious or surprised to take her seriously?

They reached the corner booth. Draco pushed the door open, and Hermione was met with the sight of a large plush couch and low lit candles. The booth was a bit smaller than her bedroom at home, with deep red wallpaper and a low ceiling. She felt like she was entering a coffin.

Cho's giggle from behind her pushed her forward, and Hermione moved to hover near the arm of the couch, standing awkwardly. Draco shut the door, and Cho walked around the other side.

"I'm honored that you chose me for your first Share, Master Malfoy." Cho brushed her hand over the back of the couch, hips swaying as she moved. "What is it you'd like to do?" Hermione swallowed, glancing over at where Draco still stood silently near the door. A pause, and then Cho moved behind Hermione, her arm slithering around her waist. "Or perhaps you'd like to watch?" she breathed in her ear.

In a blink, Cho had spun her around and was pressing her lips down on Hermione's, slipping her tongue into her mouth. Hermione gasped as she felt herself pressed against the wall, her mind trying to catch up as Cho's hands roved over her sides, sliding down to her hips. Hermione's eyes shot open, her hands awkwardly grasping Cho's elbows. She needed to stop this. Or start this. She wasn't sure.

Cho moved to her neck, and Hermione looked over at Draco, her mortification rising. He stood stiffly in the doorway, hands in his pockets, jaw clenched and eyes fixed on the two of them. Hermione drew in several gasps of air. She could do this. She needed to switch gears if this was to be believable.

Hermione wrapped her arms around Cho's back and pulled her back to her lips. She kissed her with fervor, using her tongue this time, and Cho giggled against her lips. Cho's hands slid up her hemline to grip her arse, and Hermione abruptly pulled away, panting. She turned to Draco, and whispered, "Let us prepare for you."

Draco's eyes snapped up to her from where they'd been tracking the progression of Cho's hands. He lifted a brow at her.

She disentangled herself from Cho and moved silkily toward him.

"The fantasy you told me about?" Hermione said. "Of finding the two of us in the library? 'Studying?'" His eyes flashed as she stopped in front of him, pressing her hands to his shoulders. She lifted onto her toes, looked up from under her lashes, and said, "Let me give that to you."

His eyes were dark on her. She leaned closer, and his hands snapped to her hips, holding her still. He swallowed.

"Three minutes alone." She pressed her lips to his jaw and whispered, "Please, sir?"

"Two," he responded, his voice cracking on the single word.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Her voice was low and breathy. She ran her lips along his ear and said, "I won't disappoint you."

He pushed her back by her hips, and was out the door in seconds.

Hermione spun as the door clicked closed. Within two steps she had thrown her arms around Cho, hugging her close, the dark-haired girl returning her embrace with a tight squeeze.

"Hermione—"

"Cho," Hermione breathed. "Are you alright? I've been dying to speak to you—"

"You genius!"

"Listen — we don't have much time."

She pulled away and saw Cho staring wide-eyed at the closed door in amazement.

"I need to get information to Ginny, but it can't be written down."

Cho's blinked, and the eyes that snapped back to her hardened in resolve. "Tell me."

Hermione took a breath, feeling her entire world hang on the next words. "Fiendfyre, Basilisk Venom, Sword of Gryffindor."

She watched Cho's mind spin before she pressed her lips together and nodded. "Alright."

Hermione blinked. "Is that it?"

"The less I know, the better. Consider it done."

"How soon will you—" Hermione broke off, refocusing. Two minutes. That's all they had. "Who's going to tell her? Do you have contact with her?"

"Charlotte," Cho said simply. "I can't tell you more than that, but if I get this to Charlotte, Ginny will know within a few weeks."

Hermione drew a sharp breath and nodded. "Is she in contact with the Order?"

"I have my suspicions, but I couldn't say for sure." Hermione's face fell. "Trust me," Cho continued, "the less we know, the safer it is. All I do is get whispers and notes to Charlotte. The rest is in her hands." Cho looked to the door again and reached for the hemline of her short dress. She wiggled something from between the stitching: a small green pill the size of a mint. "Take this. Charlotte and I each have one. This one's for you."

Hermione took it in her palm and stared down at it. "What is it?"

"A worst-case scenario. A suicide pill," Cho said. Hermione's eyes widened and snapped up to her. "If you're caught, take it before they're able to read your mind. If any of them find out, it's all over."

Hermione swallowed thickly, the saliva burning down her throat. Then nodded. Cho reached up for the strap of Hermione's dress, turning it over and tearing at a seam until she could push the pill through the small hole for her.

"Keep it in your hem at all times."

They had maybe a minute left. Hermione ran through the other questions she thought she could get answered in a minute.

"Is there anything the resistance needs? Any supplies? Anything that needs researching?"

"No, Hermione," Cho warned fiercely. "It's too risky. Don't endanger yourself by stealing or sneaking around."

Hermione bit her tongue, nodding. There was no way she could reveal more about her situation without jeopardizing the Malfoys.

"But it does seem like you have him wrapped around your little finger," said Cho, studying her. "I can't believe he left us alone."

Hermione let out a nervous scoff. "I mean…I suppose, but—"

"Is there anything you've seen or heard? Any meetings at the Manor that could help the resistance?"

Hermione paused. She thought of everything Draco had told her — about France, and Italy, and Spain. Of Giuliana, and Pansy. Lucius' offer to Voldemort, whispered behind a closing door. There were loads of things she could tell Cho.

"No," she said softly, feeling the guilt weigh heavy in her chest. "But I'll keep my ears open."

Cho nodded, then glanced at the door. "We have less than a minute. Let's get undressed."

Hermione froze, jolted back to the reality of their situation. Her mouth felt dry. "Oh. I think kissing will be fine—"

"You're joking, right?" Cho stared at her. "Hermione, we need to make sure he gets his money's worth. I don't want to risk him getting suspicious. Now tell me about this library fantasy." And Cho pulled her own silky dress over her head, tossing it into the corner and standing before Hermione in only her knickers and bra.

"It's… I…" Hermione stammered, glancing at the door.

Cho's eyes flickered. She stepped forward and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Have you ever had a third person before?"

"Um, no. But I—"

"It's really easy," Cho said, reaching for the zipper on the side of the red dress. "Just follow my lead." She began peeling Hermione's straps down her shoulders, and Hermione gasped, trying to lift them back up.

"Cho, listen, I—"

"What's he like? Is he rough?"

The question caught her off guard. "Rough? Er, no, but…"

"The more you tell me about his tastes, the faster this will go," Cho said, and then she was tugging Hermione's dress down her hips to pool around her heels.

A flush licked up Hermione's chest, across her sternum. "I don't… um." She cleared her throat. "He's normal."

Cho tilted her head. "Normal?"

Hermione winced. "Awful. Normal awful. Look, we don't really need to—"

Cho dragged her toward the couch, pushing her to sit. "We don't have time, Hermione. I need you to trust me." She knelt on the couch next to her, and Hermione caught the slight panic in her features as she took her face in her hands and kissed her.

Hermione squeaked. Cho's hands slid around her ribs for the clasp on her bra.

"No, no!" Hermione pulled her mouth away. "He… likes to do that himself."

The excuse was flimsy but Cho accepted it. She began kissing Hermione's neck, pushing her to lay back toward the arm of the couch.

Hermione had never been this naked with another person in her life, but there was no way to push Cho back and say, "This isn't necessary. We aren't actually having a threeway this evening." And even if she did, she doubted Cho would listen.

"What's this library fantasy?" Cho asked again, shifting down her body, sliding her hands over Hermione's stomach. "He catches us in the Restricted Section?" Cho rolled her eyes and pried Hermione's stiff knees open.

"Um, something like that."

Hermione was desperately trying to think of ways to slow things down when Cho dipped her head and kissed down her stomach.

"It's alright," Cho said softly, as Hermione jumped. "This is always a good bet. Just close your eyes and try to relax."

She kissed her bellybutton, clearly heading south, and that's how Draco found them when the door banged open.

Hermione wished to evaporate on the spot. Draco's jaw dropped, his eyes roving over her red knickers and bra. Hermione dimly registered Cho's breathy claims that they were "only studying," and "please don't tell Professor Snape!"

"Change of plans," he said roughly. "Granger and I have to go."

Hermione scrambled up, rushing to find her dress.

"Are you sure?" Cho pouted. "We were just getting started!" But she too was already reaching for her dress.

"Urgent business, I'm afraid. We'll reschedule." Draco's voice was clipped and cold. Hermione didn't dare look at him as she shimmied into her dress, silently cursing as she gracelessly tugged it up her hips.

A flurry of movement, and Cho's throaty voice said she looked forward to next time. Hermione was still trying to coax her tight zipper up as Cho slipped from the booth, closing the door behind her.

Hermione's chest felt impossibly hot as she continued struggling with her dress, staunchly ignoring Draco in the doorway. She heard him step closer to her, and when he moved her hands to the side to close the zipper, her face started burning.

Once she was dressed, he took her arm and led her out of the booth, past the boys whistling—

"Couldn't make it last, Draco?"

"Emergency Floo call. Just notified," he responded curtly.

"Sure, sure," she heard Flint's voice ring out. "The spoiled prat just likes to fuck on his own sheets."

"Oi! Is Chang still available then?" another called.

Draco waved them off, setting a quick pace to the fireplaces. He tossed the powder, and tugged her through with him into the silence of his bedroom at the Manor.

The whiplash of the past five minutes seemed to smack her upside the head — the hurried and panicked encounter with Cho, the information she'd learned about Charlotte, the red lingerie he was never supposed to see —

"I'm sorry you had to see that," she blurted out. "I tried to slow her down, but she insisted."

Draco was silent, and Hermione stared determinedly at the carpets, heart pounding in her ears.

"Were you successful?" he finally asked.

She looked up, and met his eyes for the first time since he'd left her alone with Cho in that booth. They were dark, but closed.

"Yes." She cleared her throat. "Cho will pass along the information. It's...it's Charlotte who is the hub." She turned to where he stood in front of the fireplace, watching her. "Charlotte controls the information and who gets messages to whom. If anything can get to the Order, it's through Charlotte."

Draco hummed in thought. "She has access to every room in Edinburgh," he said slowly. "She has ears on every conversation behind closed doors."

Hermione nodded. She reached up to her shoulder where Cho had tucked the green pill into her seam.

"Cho gave me this. It's in case suspicion is cast on them. If they are ever in danger of having their memories searched."

He stepped forward, staring down at the pill. "What is it?"

"A suicide pill, of sorts," she said. She turned the pill over in her hand, wondering who created it, how they got them to Charlotte.

It was a moment before Draco asked, "And why do you have one?"

She looked up at him. His eyes were tight.

"Cho and Charlotte both have one. Cho gave one to me." She took a breath. "They wear them in their hems. So if I'm ever caught I'll have to—"

Quick as lightning, Draco snatched the pill from her hand and tossed it into the fire.

Hermione stared at the flames, dumbfounded, her heartbeat pounding beneath her skin. She whipped her head around.

"What—?"

"Like hell you will."

His gaze was murderous.

"Draco, you just—!" She jerked her head, her mind still not quite processing. She rushed to the fire, reaching out to grab the pill before it was destroyed.

A vice on her other arm, yanking her back.

"Let go of me!" she cried, panic overtaking her.

His cold grey eyes were burning almost blue. "You got to play your little game with Chang tonight. But you will under no circumstances end your life."

She gaped at him, breathing hard. He had his teeth bared at her. She ripped her arm from his grip.

"Don't you dare command me like a slave."

She huffed and spun back to the fireplace, spying a speck of green near the grate. She knelt quickly to retrieve it, but he yanked her back by her elbow as her fingers brushed the flames. She stumbled, and tried stamping her heel into his foot. He hissed and grabbed her shoulders, shoving her back into the wall, his face snarling down at her.

"Perhaps you didn't hear me, Granger—"

"Oh, I heard you, you prick!" She tried shaking him off, but his fingers dug into her shoulders. "It's a precaution. This is war—"

"Don't talk to me about war," he hissed. "Every day I'm brought to the battle lines while you sit in here playing tea with my mother—"

Her mouth fell open. "Don't you dare—"

"And now you want to lecture me on the cost of war? The things I've had to do — to sacrifice for you — and you want to end it all with one swallow."

She struggled to breathe, watching his eyes burn into her. "Worried about protecting your investment? It's still my life—"

"I paid for your life," he snarled, shaking her shoulders. "It's mine. You will not end it without my permission."

She gasped, body stiffening. His breath panted over her face. She could feel the rage bubbling inside of her, spinning low in her stomach. Two more heartbeats, and it exploded. She tore his hands from her shoulders.

"And what did your sixty-five thousand Galleons get you, Malfoy?" She pushed his chest, but he didn't sway. "Am I everything you hoped for and more?"

She pushed at him again and his hands snapped up, grabbing her wrists and pushing them back against the wall next to her face. He stepped into her.

"You wanna know what my Galleons bought me, Granger?"

"Get off me—"

"An ungrateful little shrew with a hero complex—"

"You arsehole—"

"—who only aims to make my life more complicated—"

"You have no moral code, Malfoy—"

"—has given me nothing but torture for months—"

"My apologies for being such a burden on you! If it's been such torture having me here, then why do you care what I do with my life?"

His jaw dipped downward, as if he was about to reply. She waited, panting harshly, ribs expanding to brush his chest. When no answer came, she looked up, finding his gaze on her mouth, her parted lips.

Her stomach twisted and her heart pounded.

He blinked once, eyes clearing as they locked on hers, looking like he'd quite forgotten what they were talking about.

But he didn't step back.

She looked at his mouth, hoping wildly, inexplicably.

With just the smallest movement, she lifted her chin, and watched his eyes drop to her lips again. Her air left her in a puff, and he breathed her in, like he'd finally found the surface after years of being underwater.

His mouth tilted downwards, and with a final flicker up to her eyes, he was pressing his mouth to hers softly, like one of them could break at any moment. She pushed her lips back, hearing her heartbeat in her ears.

And like a slow-rolling wave growing larger and more dangerous, he kissed her — his lips closing over hers, his chest pushing forward until he was surrounding her, his mouth opening when her lips parted and his tongue pressing forward like they'd been doing this for months.

She sighed into his mouth, and his hips rolled forward, pinning her to the wall. She rotated her wrists in his grasp, aching to touch him, but his fingers tightened their hold.

His head tilted to the side and his mouth devoured her, drugging her, dragging her down. His lips were quick and clever and his tongue was gifted.

Her head was spinning before she realized his knee was nudging hers apart, slipping between her thighs—

Just as she'd seen him do with Pansy in the corridors.

She gasped, dizzy with want as his body pressed up against her, his thigh pushing forward to be closer to her, slipping higher and higher to press against her core.

When she moaned a plea against his lips, his fingers dug into her wrists and his mouth panted into hers.

And like a rubber band snapping, he was gone.

Her eyes fluttered open, and her body tried to follow him, magnetized. He still held her wrists to the wall, but he'd pulled his chest and hips far away. She caught her breath as he looked at her in shock. And she saw the panic color his eyes and shiver across his skin.

"I'm sorry," he breathed.

She tried to use her voice to reassure him, but he stepped away from her.

"I'm s— I'm sorry. I'm—"

His eyes were wide and frightened. She started to reach for him, but he turned quickly, striding to the exit.

The door slammed behind him.

She stood alone in his bedroom, her lips still warm and bruised from his mouth. Her mind was numb and her skin too warm. Moving briskly to the door, she threw it open to find an empty hallway — Draco already gone.

She wandered back to her own room slowly, mind reeling. She kicked off her heels and put them away in the armoire, catching sight of herself in a mirror for the first time in hours.

A girl with smoky eyes, lustrous curls, scarlet lips, and a red dress stared back at her. She'd almost forgotten what she looked like tonight.

She turned away and unzipped with shaking fingers, letting the dress pool on the floor. And as she walked to the bathroom in just Pansy Parkinson's red lingerie, she wondered if maybe Draco had forgotten who she was tonight as well.

If maybe he'd kissed the girl with the red lips and tight curls and lacy red knickers instead.

She woke up exhausted, limbs leaden, head groaning in protest. Watching the golden morning light creep up the walls, she lay in bed, grogginess fading as her mind began cataloging the last twenty-four hours.

He'd kissed her.

He'd kissed her, then ran, like he couldn't escape her fast enough.

Hermione took a shuddering breath and slapped both palms to her forehead, pressing her eyes together and banishing the images. Directing her attention to where it should be.

She'd gotten the information to Cho. The key to killing Nagini was in transit to Ginny — Ginny, who she could only pray would be able to do something of value with it. And they hadn't been caught.

Exhaling in relief, Hermione tried to celebrate her success.

— has given me nothing but torture for months—

She groaned and turned over under her covers, yanking the fluffy comforter up to her ears. But her mind grew only more obstinate as she burrowed deep in darkness.

The way he'd stared at her lips. The feeling of his chest against hers. His tongue sweeping sinfully through her mouth, coaxing, then demanding. His knee slipping between hers, pressed against her core, feeling his body surrounding her.

Hermione squirmed, a strained embarrassment flushing her. She rolled onto her back and ran her hand over her face.

There had been something dark in him last night. A cord pulled taut and dangerous. And instead of restraining herself, she'd tugged, tumbling right over the edge with him when it broke.

She'd been too needy. She never should have tilted her face to his and pushed her tongue into his mouth like she needed to breathe his air. Should have ignored his thigh and how she wanted to rub herself against it.

His panic as he pulled away from her. Had she done something wrong? Perhaps her lips had been dry, or untrained. Or maybe he'd simply recovered, remembering himself, remembering her. Remembering all they'd been through.

He'd been so hesitant to touch or even look at her since the day he'd thrown her on this bed and ripped her slip open. It had taken months for them to recover, but they'd finally reached an understanding — a partnership, even.

And then all their careful control had melted away last night when she let herself become the girl in the red dress with red lips and red knickers.

A wave of heat crept over her as the memories drifted to the surface. She tried to shove it all aside — the feeling of his lips on hers, her body pinned to the wall, his groans into her mouth, continued to assault her psyche.

Would it be so bad for her to give in? If they both wanted the same thing—

Huffing loudly, Hermione rubbed her eyes, refocusing on her canopy.

She couldn't—wouldn't—forget herself. Today was no different than any other day, and she had research to do. Beginning with the tattoos.

She threw the covers off herself and stood. Frowning at her unmade bed, she wondered where to start today. And then Nott Sr.'s rant last night slammed into her head like a punch.

Not even the Scourers could succeed where we have!

Her breath hitched. She rushed to the bathroom, splashing water on her face and tossing up her mangled hair.

Scrambling through her books, she pulled out the volume on magical North America that she'd only just started. Her trembling fingers flipped to the index.

Scourers, 240, 394-395

Her heart pounded. Three pages. Only three. Hermione blew out an exasperated breath as she flipped to page 240. She could do this. Information on Horcruxes had been scarcer when she was on the run, and she'd still managed to crack them.

Timothy Smithstone was later captured and executed by the Scourers in Massachusetts before his request of copyright could be answered by the Wizengamot in Britain.

Hermione blinked down at the page. Timothy Smithstone was a blip in the radar about the creation of the Calming Draught. She quickly turned to page 394, praying she'd find something more helpful.

The Scourers were a corrupt group of vigilantes and eugenicists operating in the New World in the absence of a magical government. They deemed themselves the enforcers of magical law in the colonies, and took on the role of bounty-hunters, chasing down accused criminals and conducting their own trials and executions.

They were infamous for their systematic violence against the Native American magical community, and later the African American magical community. Indigenous and African American peoples showing signs of magical ability were either killed or captured and enslaved by the Scourers, who believed that European magical blood was the highest of purity and should remain untainted.

The Scourers flourished when the slave trade began in North America in 1619, moving freely in Muggle circles to acquire largely Muggle-born African American witches and wizards. They experimented with and developed spells on their victims, going to great magical lengths to secure their "property." Slaves were sterilized and often sold to magical families who had integrated into the Muggle colonies' plantation economy.

Refusing to acknowledge the severe human rights violations they inflicted on the men and women they forced into slavery, the Scourers argued that their victims were not fully human, referring to them as "acquisitions." More informally, they called their male slaves "pigeons" and their female slaves "doves."

Hermione braced herself on the bookshelf, her skin tingling all over. "Hello, little dove," Nott Sr. had said to her, tilting her chin up with the handle of his cane.

She sucked in air like it was disappearing. For weeks, she'd been looking through the catalog's results for the word "slave" and its variations. But the Scourers didn't call them slaves.

And from this bare minimum of information on these bloodthirsty mercenaries, driven by prejudice and greed, it was so easy to see where the Death Eaters might have taken their inspiration.

Hermione tugged on a pair of leggings and the first spare shirt she could find, running down to the library barefoot. The doors groaned open with her shove, and she stood at the library catalog, pulse racing.

"Show me all texts containing the phrase, 'the Scourers.' Cross-reference with 'acquisition,' 'dove' and 'pigeon.'"

The book finder glowed. And ten, twelve...fifteen green lights drifted out of the catalog, each leading to a text slowly pulling off the shelves, suspended and waiting for her.

A laugh burst out of her throat — such sweet relief spreading through her veins. She slapped a hand over her mouth and stared at the hovering books.

The closest book to her was a thin leather journal. She reached on her tiptoes to pluck it from the air, and found the name Tobias Tolbrette inside the cover. It was from the 1600s.

Bounding to each row, up each ladder where they hovered, she pulled all the books down, examining their covers, their years. So many handwritten journals and history books that had been published hundreds of years ago. Her volume on the history of magical North America was only a decade old.

This was the key. Nott Sr. had been careless last night, and now all she had to do was follow the breadcrumbs. She sat down between the stacks, surrounded by piles of books, picking up one after another and skimming as quickly as her exhausted brain would allow. It would take her weeks to read them, but for now, she couldn't help but devour the pages like a starving man at a feast.

Her eyes widened and her stomach churned when she flipped to a page halfway through Tobias Tolbrette's journal.

And each night before I take her in my chambers, I force her to stare down at my name burned into her skin. The brand of me on her shoulder, like the brand on my oxen.

The tattoos. The Scourers had also used magical skin branding. But Nott Sr. claimed to have made advances. If she could decipher what the Scourers had done with their brands, she'd be one step closer to knowing what Nott Sr. had done.

She uncurled her legs, standing to ask the catalog for a cross-reference of "brand" in the texts she already had.

The library doors creaked open.

She froze, then peered through the shelves to see Draco stepping slowly into the library. A wave of rapid emotions tumbled over her, and she moved out from behind the stacks. The room was silent as their eyes locked. His gaze flickered down to her bare feet, and she shifted self-consciously until it returned to her eyes, her open mouth.

A flash of heat seared through her at the memory of the night before. His lips and his chest and his thigh.

She could tell him about what she'd just learned. They could go through the books together, and when she finally asked him about last night, he might silence her with a kiss—

"I'd like to apologize for last night." He slipped his hands into his pockets, and her breath left her. She squeezed the book closer to her chest, pressing indents into her fingertips. "I quite forgot myself. I lost control, and it won't happen again."

She blinked at him. He was stoic, with cold eyes and clipped sentences. With finality. Her heartbeat quickened as the words sunk into her skin, chilling her blood.

He regretted kissing her. Of course he did. Hermione swallowed, suddenly awash with guilt and shame. Not an hour ago, she'd thought it was a memory she could hold and return to whenever she wanted.

It won't happen again.

She really was a stupid girl.

Focusing on the numbness in her fingertips, she nodded, blinking at him. "I see."

A pause before he moved into the room, inching closer. Like a coiled spring begging to go the other direction. Looking over her texts on the floor, he pressed his lips together before glancing up.

"It was completely inappropriate of me." He cleared his throat. "I'd understand if you'd like to discontinue our practice sessions."

Hermione narrowed her eyes, anger suddenly constricting her chest.

"That won't be necessary." She turned back to the bookshelf, plucking out a volume at random and flipping through its pages. "We absolutely need to keep practicing. I'd say we're nowhere near as comfortable as we should be."

An uneasy shuffling behind her. Before he could speak, she silenced him with a snap of the book's spine.

"There's no need to fuss. I don't intend to draw suspicion on myself over a stupid mistake caused by one too many glasses of wine."

She spun on her heel and walked out of his sight, back to her piles of books. Nothing had changed between them. He'd made a mistake, and so had she. Now that they'd both acknowledged it, they could continue as they were.

A sound of careful footsteps up to the landing as she methodically collected her books into her arms. She whipped her head over her shoulder to glare at him.

Draco stood hovering near a shelf, watching her silently. A flicker in his expression before his throat bobbed. "Are you sure that's wise? To continue practicing?" he finally asked.

She stood straight and lifted a brow at him. "Why not? We both agreed that it was a mistake and that it won't happen again. Pretty straightforward, really."

He blinked at her, his left eye twitching.

"Let me know when you're ready to pick back up again, Malfoy." She pushed around him, carrying her books with her back upstairs.

She managed to make it behind the locked door of her bathroom before she began crying, running the tap to drown out her sobs.

~*~

The rest of her day was consumed by Occlumency. She tried advanced techniques, finding ways to softly tear pages out of her mental books and let them gather and bind into a new text, tucking it away on a back shelf in the Restricted Section of her mental library.

She severed pages: his darkened eyes, warm lips, and gifted tongue. A firm thigh between her legs, long fingers gripping her wrists — all sealed and tucked away.

Added to the new restricted book were the images of her red lips, tight curls, and lacy knickers. She didn't want to think about the costume that had made him forget who they both were.

There was an invitation to dinner at some point, a woman's voice spoken softly through the door. By the time she noticed the cold plate on her coffee table, six hours had passed, and the sky was black outside her window. Even the moonlight was too bright for the pressure behind her eyes, so she drank her Sleeping Draughts and fell asleep before she'd fully slipped between the covers.

Hermione woke up early on Sunday and spent the extra time meditating and Occluding. There was research to do, and she couldn't lose another day on silly distractions.

She ran into him twice that day, staring sullen and blank-faced at her in the halls on her way to the conservatory, and then again when she was just leaving her solitary dinner.

By noon on Monday, she was almost done with her first book. She read the Prophet over lunch, catching a small article on Page 3 about rioting in Italy. And not an hour later, Mippy appeared with trembling eyes and her afternoon coffee, telling her that Draco had been called away.

Narcissa came to her two days later, gently inquiring about her well-being and pressing a letter into her hands that updated the "household" on the situation in Italy. Hermione cross-referenced the little information in Draco's note with what Skeeter had been printing, and deduced that he'd been sent to control unrest fueled by the disappearances of Antonio Bravieri's former council members. He wouldn't be able to write again while he was away, but he claimed to be safe and begged his mother not to worry.

Once she was finished with it, Hermione crumpled his note in her palm. There was nothing worth saving in those words, and she already felt foolish holding onto a few scraps of paper from before. She crossed the room to the jewelry box on her bedside table and reached for the other notes from him, ready to toss them all into the flames — but something paused her. She smoothed and tucked the latest letter in the jewelry box, and then stared out her window for the next hour, watching the horizon.

~*~

The weeks dragged on in Draco's absence, and Hermione threw herself into her research. The journals pulled by the catalog seemed critical, but she'd mostly found fragments and riddles. Some spells were clearly relevant — a "lightning barrier," for example— but its directions listed strange ingredients and symbols that were clearly in code.

It would be so much easier if she had a hint or two. Someone to point her in one direction or another. In the evenings, as she applied the cream Pansy had forced on her, she would consider Theo Nott, wondering how she could glean information from him about his father's work on the tattoos.

As August stretched to a close, Hermione began seeing Narcissa for daily meals again. Narcissa seemed to intuit that something had happened, because she never mentioned Draco by name. Hermione was grateful for it, and for her company. They were welcome breaks from her research and Occlumency.

One morning, they were having breakfast together when Hermione looked down at the Daily Prophet and found a picture of the Hogwarts Express. The date on the paper read 01 September. She gasped, her fork clattering on the china.

Narcissa looked up from her plate with wide eyes, caught mid-bite.

"Hogwarts reopened?"

A shadow flitted over Narcissa's face. She finished chewing and gave a single nod. "For pure-bloods, yes."

Hermione's eyes sped through the article, snatching on words like Headmistress Dolores Umbridge, Dark Magics, and Introduction to Interrogation. Her stomach turned in disgust.

"This is hardly an education. They're training child soldiers!"

"Things have changed… significantly, Hermione." Narcissa set down her cutlery and closed her eyes, exhaling. "Parents had the option to educate their children at home, but all will be tested on the new curriculum at the end of the school year."

Hermione's veins tingled with dread as she stared down at the Hogwarts Express, thinking of how majestic it used to seem to her. Full of promise and possibility. She'd met Ron and Harry for the first time on that train.

She'd met Draco on that train…though she couldn't be sure he remembered. He'd been quite rude to her when she asked about Neville's toad.

She blinked and shook her head, refocusing. It was September the first, and the Hogwarts Express was taking children back to school. The world had continued spinning, although darker than before.

"Is the Dark Lord still at the castle?"

Narcissa nodded slowly. "There are far fewer students arriving, so they're confining them to the towers and upper floors."

So any attack on Hogwarts would endanger the children inside. Hermione sighed, rubbing her brow. It must be a waking nightmare for returning students. How many of the old staff and teachers were dead? She worried for the poor house-elves in the kitchens, too, but they at least were unlikely to be killed. Servants were still necessary for the school to operate.

A memory sparked in her. Kreacher.

Hermione's eyes slid to Narcissa as she took delicate bites from her toast. Grimmauld Place had been a property of the Black family before it had passed to Harry.

"Narcissa, I hope you don't mind me asking…" Hermione cleared her throat. "But I wondered if you knew anything about the house-elf, Kreacher?"

Narcissa blinked, caught off guard. Then her lips pulled into a tight smile. "I seem to remember that he's a grumpy little thing. My sister used to chase him around when we would visit our cousins." She set her teacup down without a sound, and said, "Why? Has he been bothering you?"

"No. But I did see him last week." She fiddled with the napkin in her lap. "And I was just curious who his master is?"

Narcissa nodded. "Grimmauld Place is now in Draco's name," she said simply. "Once the dust settled at Hogwarts, I went to Gringotts and filed the paperwork. The property fell to the Black family, but as my eldest sister has no heirs, the estate passed to Draco, the only male heir in the Black line."

Hermione's mind spun on its axis. Grimmauld Place belonged to Draco. Kreacher belonged to Draco. Pansy must be hiding at Grimmauld Place. Her breath hitched — but still, something tugged at Hermione's mind.

Harry. Grimmauld Place had been his.

"And…and the goblins at Gringotts…" she stammered, searching for the right words. "How did they decide to strip Harry of the property?"

Narcissa tilted her head, brows knitting in confusion. "When Potter died without a will, the property was left ownerless. The goblins have magic tracking these things."

Hermione's face felt tight. Her skin was buzzing — she could hear it in her ears. If she hadn't already been sitting, she would have needed a chair.

The goblins at Gringotts — the most by-the-book species in the magical world — had approved paperwork declaring that the previous owner of Grimmauld Place was dead.

A hand touched her wrist.

"Hermione, are you alright? You're as pale as a sheet."

Narcissa's voice seemed far away.

Hermione focused on her breathing, pulling air deeply. She thought of a lake with still waters until her heartbeat returned to normal, and her breathing regulated.

When she opened her eyes, Narcissa had pulled Hermione's chair out and was kneeling in front of her. A cool hand was on her face, the other squeezing her hand. Mippy hovered in the doorway, twirling her ear anxiously.

"I'm very sorry, dear. I didn't realize that this would be a shock to you."

Hermione shook her head, feeling her body sway slightly in her chair.

"It's not. I just…" She swallowed and looked into Narcissa's warm blue eyes. "I had hope."

The pity in Narcissa's gaze was almost too much to bear. Narcissa took her hands and brought them to her lips, kissing her knuckles.

"I was the one to check the body, Hermione," she said softly. Hermione felt a tear plummet from her eyes to their joined hands. "He wasn't breathing. There was no heartbeat." Narcissa slowly freed a hand to brush a curl behind Hermione's ear. "He walked into that forest bravely, and died just the same."

Her throat choked back a sob as she nodded. She squeezed Narcissa's hands in thanks, and then used her napkin to dry her eyes.

Narcissa understood when she excused herself to her room. Hermione buried herself in research and Occlumency that day, trying to forget that she'd met Harry exactly seven years ago on a magical train that took them to a magical school where she'd finally found belonging.

~*~

Draco still wasn't back that Friday. But he had appeared in a picture in the paper that day, standing stoically behind the new Italian puppet minister as he gave a speech. Hermione's heart had skipped a beat, taking in the sharpness in his jaw, the bags beneath his eyes. But even as she'd blinked away, she kept seeing grey eyes instead of a lake with still waters.

One morning, Hermione stepped out of her bath, wrapped a towel tightly around herself, and moved to her armoire. She opened it and gasped.

An unfamiliar assortment of colors. Patterns. Silks. A quick pull to her drawer found that all her comfortable underthings had been replaced with mere scraps of fabric. A small folded note lay on top, and she snatched it up.

McGonagall requested her knickers back. There are some new additions I think you'll enjoy.

— P.

Hermione flushed. Pansy was trying to kill her. She scrounged through her drawers to find any trace of pale cotton, but she'd replaced them all. Running a hand down her face, Hermione huffed loudly, and chose a pale pink pair.

There were still denims in the other drawer — thankfully — but her jaw dropped when she also found shorts. Hanging up in the closet were skirts shorter than her Hogwarts uniform, low-cut blouses, and a few dresses.

Hermione scowled. Perhaps she could send Pansy a doll for Christmas. It would be the same principle.

She slid on her denims after staring too long at a pale blue dress, and chose a new grey t-shirt that seemed innocuous enough — until she realized the neck dipped lower than she'd expected.

Rolling her eyes, Hermione stomped to her bathroom and began drying her hair. She spent the whole day in the library, yanking up her t-shirt, though no one was looking.

~*~

Draco returned on Sunday evening. Hermione had allowed herself a long walk in the late summer air to organize her thoughts. She was just coming in from the outdoors when the Floo burst to life. She yelped, jumping as the fire roared, and a figure stepped through it.

She stood frozen as he patted down his robes and ran a hand through his blond hair. Then his head turned.

"Granger." His hand dropped away. His fingers twitched.

She blinked back at him. "Malfoy."

He took a step towards her, his eyes running over her quickly, landing on the breezy knee-length skirt she was wearing.

"What's that?"

She looked down at herself, fingers brushing the fabric. "A skirt."

"Where did you get it?"

She arched a brow at him. "Pansy replaced my wardrobe. Against my will."

His eyes popped. "All of it?"

"Just about." Irritation pricked her skin as she watched him frown down at her. "Are you a purveyor of women's fashion, Draco? Should I run my wardrobe choices by you?"

His eyes snapped to hers before looking away, a blush rising to his cheekbones.

"Not at all. I was just..." He waved his hand. "Caught off guard." He looked around the entrance hall, searching for an escape. "I'm going to find Mother."

"You'll fill me in on Italy tomorrow, yes?" she called after him. He stopped on the first stair.

"I'll find you after breakfast," he said, still not facing her.

"I meant during our practice session."

An expansion of his ribs, then a slow turn back to her, as if meeting the executioner. "Granger, you can't be serious about continuing—"

"Absolutely I am." She waited for his reply, folding her arms. His eyes dropped to her skirt once.

"Look," she said tightly. "I know going to Italy wasn't your choice, but I've been locked away for months. I know you think I'm a stupid Gryffindor with a hero complex—"

"Granger—"

"Please, let me finish."

His gaze flickered, and he closed his mouth.

"What I mean to say is that I need to be at Edinburgh. I need to be able to move around there. I need to—" She swallowed. "…to play the game a bit better." She thought of Cho and Charlotte. Of Pansy's insistence that she wasn't just another prize to bid on, but the prize. She tilted her chin up. "My place shouldn't be in the background."

His eyes jerked up from her clavicles. "So what does that make me? Your little pet who runs around cleaning up your messes?"

"Don't be impossible," she snapped. "Clearly I'm the pet in this situation, and both of our lives depend on people thinking that."

He said nothing, glaring at her.

She sighed and slowly uncrossed her arms. "Listen, Malfoy. You knew who I was when you bought me." His throat bobbed. "The fact that I want to help the Order shouldn't surprise you."

His gaze tumbled over her neck and shoulders again, before sliding back up her eyes.

"You know who I am just as well," he said, and a hint of that old Hogwarts arrogance slipped over him like a cloak. "It shouldn't surprise you if I stand in your path. We have opposing interests, after all."

She blinked at him. A slight sneer on his face, as if he'd slithered back into the persona he tried to wear for so many years. It looked strange on him now.

"I'd like to think I know who you are." Her voice was soft, drifting over to him like a breeze across a field. Even at Hogwarts, she'd thought she knew — thought she'd seen a piece of him he tried to keep buried. "I'd like to think…that our interests aren't as opposing as you'd let me believe. Why else would you help me with Cho?"

She watched the slow movement of his ribs, watched his eyes skate over her face. He didn't deny it. He just stared back at her, his fingers paling as they gripped the marble banister.

She thought she could maybe survive the absence of his affections if he continued to help her and speak openly with her about the war. She thought that maybe, if she could have that from him… it could ease the ache.

Her gaze slid back up, preparing to close the book that cataloged the softness of his eyes and the way his shirt hugged his torso. He might have been doing the same.

"I promise to keep you informed." She moved closer to the stairs. "I promise to do everything in my power to not get you or your mother killed. Or your father, if I must." She chanced a half-smile.

A muscle twitched in his jaw. "And what about getting yourself killed?"

"Yes, yes, protecting your investment and all that." She blew out a quick breath. "I promise to try to avoid that, too. I'm not a big fan of the idea myself."

"Then I expect you to act like it." He dropped down the first stair to meet her. "And I expect you to keep your word."

She nodded. And when her stomach flipped at his gaze, she broke away, stepping backward.

"Practice tomorrow, then?" she asked.

He made an impatient sound at the back of his throat. "I really don't think—"

"And I really do. Edinburgh is five nights away, and we can barely stand to be in the same room as each other because—" Her cheeks burned, and she looked at her shoes. "Because you've been away so long."

Silence. And then: "You're a horrible liar, Granger."

"Fine," she fumed. "Because we kissed. Because we both had a terrible lapse in judgment and we kissed. But I'm trusting that we can both just buck up and behave like adults about this!"

He lifted a brow at her. "Adults?"

"Yes." She huffed and curled her fingers into fists. "Just because we had a 'moment' doesn't mean we should throw away all our hard work."

His lips pressed together. "If you really think…"

"Wonderful. I'll see you at seven tomorrow."

His mouth moved wordlessly before she rushed ahead of him, practically bolting up the staircase. She didn't turn around, but she could feel him glowering at her back the whole way.

~*~

The small sitting room in the eastern wing had a variety of chairs and couches. The elves had conjured a small table at Hermione's request so they could simulate a dinner at Edinburgh as closely as possible.

On Monday evening, he sat in their usual chair and picked at his dinner while she grilled him on Italy. He'd spent the entire time in Rome, protecting the new minister.

"Like a bodyguard?" she asked.

"I guess you could say that." He cut into his steak, one arm around her waist. "More of a babysitter, really. Making sure Romano is following the instructions the Dark Lord set for him."

"What kind of instructions," she said, tearing her eyes away from the way his lips closed around his fork.

"Magical education reform. A Muggle-born registration."

She nodded, having expected both. She waited for him to be almost done with his dinner before she said, "I need a favor."

His jaw froze, mid-chew. He lifted a brow and shook his head at his plate with a frustrated sigh. "Go right ahead, Granger."

"I need your help getting time alone with Theo."

He dropped his utensils, turning to look at her. "Why?"

"His father designed the tattoos, didn't he?"

He glanced quickly down to his initials on her arm. "Yes—"

"Maybe he helped his father. Or maybe he knows something—"

"And how in Merlin's name are you going to find out? Ask him nicely?"

"Not exactly." Hermione cleared her throat, suddenly feeling hot all over. "I thought I might be able to flatter him a bit — cozy up to him. Maybe wear something he'd find appealing. Nothing serious, of course. You could break it up like we did with Cho."

Draco's barking laugh jostled her. She stared at him wide-eyed, feeling mortification creep up her neck as his chest rumbled.

"What's so funny?" she demanded.

"As much as I would love to see you try, Granger," he said, still smirking, "your charms won't work on him."

"And why not?" The tips of her ears were burning. "I wore a tight red dress last time, and my 'charms' seemed to work on someone we both know."

His smile immediately died. His ribs were stiff and unmoving against hers.

She scoffed and turned her face away, grabbing her wine glass.

"Granger, you're not his type," Draco said softly, still a bit of amusement in his voice.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Yes, I know you think he's gay. But clearly, your eyesight is failing you, because he was very intimate with his Carrow Girl last time. It's called being bisexual, Malfoy. Surely you must have heard of it?"

His eyes snapped to hers, and his scowl deepened. "Regardless, the answer is still no."

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "And why not?"

"Because he'd see right through you. It would never work."

"I disagree. Theo's desperate to prove himself. He loves attention and praise. I think it would be easy if he was drunk enough—"

"I said no." Draco's eyes and mouth were hard. "Everyone would want to know why I'm suddenly Sharing you. It would open the floodgates."

The breath left Hermione's lungs. He had her there.

"That is a problem. But I still think we could find a way."

"What part about 'no' don't you understand, Granger?" And then she was pushed from his lap, and they both were standing upright as she blinked up at him, stunned. "This idea is beyond stupid," he hissed.

"How is it any stupider than Cho?" she snarled, her anger flaring.

"Theo is gay, which you refuse to let sink into that stubborn head of yours—"

"Then let me get alone with him and be the judge! I fail to understand why you care so much!"

She spun on her heel and stormed out of the room, relishing how good it felt to be the first one to leave for once.

~*~

Hermione was in a foul mood into the next day. She considered slipping back into Pansy's costume for that evening's practice session, just to prove a point — Remember the girl in the red dress? — but she refrained.

She met him down in the sitting room at seven o'clock, determined to set aside her simmering rage and embarrassment at the conversation the previous evening. Letting him finish his dinner in relative silence except for a few questions about Italy, she sat and drank her wine as he spoke.

When he was halfway through his meal, she leaned close to his body again, tucking herself into his side. Her lips moved to his jaw, and she trailed light kisses down to his shoulder as he swallowed his wine. Her hand reached for his opposite shoulder, fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt.

His throat bobbed.

One of her hands ran through the hair at the base of his neck, and she kissed just under his ear, letting her tongue gently glide along the skin.

His fork clattered to the plate, and then his hands were on her hips, pushing her away.

"That's enough, Granger—"

She scowled at him as she wobbled, bracing herself on his knees. "That was barely anything, Malfoy."

He glowered back, jaw tense. She finally broke their glaring contest with a belabored huff. "Just a few more minutes, and we'll call it a night, alright? Just think of — of something else."

His nostrils flared — but then he blinked, and the eyes that opened back at her were a cool grey. He jerked a nod.

Grumbling, she moved closer, and he steadied her on his lap, holding her still while he sat stiffly. Slowly, gently, she let her fingers trail over his collar as she kissed at his neck. Tracing a path through the opened top of his collar, she paused at his ear before cautiously running her teeth over his earlobe.

He hissed and tried to push her back again. And her blood erupted in anger.

"Stop acting like I repulse you—"

"You bloody witch—"

"—so stiff and uncomfortable, it's a miracle the entire room hasn't noticed! And if you keep pushing me, I'm going to fall off!"

She shifted onto his lap, pulling herself tight to his body, sitting sideways across his groin. And she felt it at the same time Draco groaned.

He had an erection.

Hermione's eyes popped wide, her face still buried in his neck. His fingers were digging into her hips, holding her very still.

Her heart started racing, and the heat in her body boiled. Her fingers were squeezing his shoulders before she could stop them. She begged herself to use her brain.

He was experiencing attraction of a…sexual nature. But she didn't have on Pansy's red dress or knickers. She was bare-faced and wild-haired, in just a jumper and denims.

And suddenly she remembered every other time he'd pushed her off his lap — even the first time she'd kissed his neck — weeks ago.

Mouth open, she pulled back to look at his face.

His eyes were pressed closed, lips tight, breathing quickly through his nose. The blush on his neck had spread to his cheeks.

Snapping open, his eyes locked on hers. Heated greys and bottomless pupils.

"Satisfied, Granger?" he hissed. His fingers dug into her hips, pulling her tight against his crotch. "That makes one of us."

He swiftly removed her from his lap, placed her on her feet, and was out the door before Hermione could take a breath deep enough to clear her head.

~*~

She laid in bed that night, staring up at her canopy with wide eyes. It was after midnight, and her mind was still racing.

Perhaps Draco Malfoy was just very sensitive about his neck. Or he had instant erections when his neck was kissed.

Or maybe he was remembering their kiss as well. Maybe he couldn't stop imagining the girl with the red lips in the red dress—

But no. He was shoving her off his lap well before she'd ever put on those knickers.

Hermione huffed and rolled to her side. She thought of his eyes on her legs whenever they had left for Edinburgh. Even months ago, on the night he'd taken her to Hogwarts to stand before Voldemort, she'd been in a thin, short slip, and his eyes had dropped.

A warmth in her chest blossomed. Perhaps he did find her attractive, even though he claimed he'd "forgotten himself" that night. Something deep inside her, hidden away for years, preened. Like a flower feeling sunlight again after a frozen winter.

Her mind drifted to the way he'd looked at her when she was only in those red knickers and red bra, seemingly about to engage in lewd acts with another girl. She hadn't been able to meet his eyes, but she wondered now if he'd even spared Cho a glance.

The way his knuckles had brushed against her ribs as he helped her zip her dress.

Hermione groaned into her pillow, chastising herself for letting her mind wander to places she couldn't follow. Because she could not. She ought not.

Has he ever thought of me while touching himself?

Something spun low in her belly, begging her to continue.

His eyes hot as fire on hers in the seconds before he kissed her.

His lips, soft and hesitant at first, and then passionate and demanding.

His knee opening her up, pressing between her legs…

Hermione turned on her back, parting her thighs. Her hand slipped down to cover herself, feeling through her knickers that she was already turned on. She groaned in embarrassment. And then bit her lip when she pushed the lace to the side.

~*~

Hermione sat ramrod straight at the breakfast table the following morning. Draco hadn't joined them, but simply being in his mother's presence made her feel awkward and guilty. She'd felt like every eye of every portrait was on her as she walked downstairs, all gossiping about the harlot who'd touched herself in the Malfoy's guest room.

She couldn't meet Narcissa's eye for the entire morning, and dreaded running into Draco in this condition.

When she got back to her room after breakfast, Hermione paced the floor and considered.

Despite this mess, they had to continue practicing — for a variety of reasons, none of which included Draco's erection or Hermione's still buzzing skin. She just couldn't think of what those reasons were until she sat and focused. So she did.

The Lounge wasn't just sitting on laps and watching the boys banter and drink. The Lounge was far more active — less than her first visit, of course, but still a cesspool of lust. In the few times she'd been to the Lounge, she'd sat in Draco's lap and—

Did he have an erection then as well?

Hermione stared out the window, drifting her fingers across her collarbone, thinking.

No! She needed to focus. She shook her head vigorously to clear it.

She'd sat in Draco's lap, and any touching had been initiated by her. What she'd seen from the other couples in the Lounge was…far more involved. She remembered seeing Carrow Girls straddling laps, hands drifting to discreet places, and lips on girls' necks.

And since kissing on the mouth was a strict boundary of Draco's — one they had conveniently ignored last month — she would need to encourage him to put his lips…in other places.

Hermione felt her neck heat, imagining all the other places he could—

Jumping from her chair quickly, and giving her cheeks a few light slaps, she called for a house-elf to tell Draco that she would meet him in their usual spot at seven that evening. And then drew herself a chilly bath that she would not enjoy herself in.

~*~

She spent the better part of a half-hour braiding and unbraiding her hair into a single plait to lay over her shoulder. Approaching her armoire after finally deciding in favor of the plait, she roved her eyes through the dresses and skirts Pansy had added to her wardrobe. Hermione frowned at herself. She was not about to wear a dress to her practice session with Draco.

The pairs of shorts swayed on their hangers, begging her attention. Perhaps she could try something different. Her stomach flipped pleasantly at the thought of her bare skin on him, but she shoved it aside. She was wearing shorts tonight because the fabric was flexible. And if she was going to end up on the floor this evening, at least she'd have a better chance of catching herself. Hermione plucked a matching top from the wardrobe and finished getting ready.

Draco had differing opinions about the shorts.

"The hell are those?" he said when he entered the sitting room to find her sitting on the chaise, waiting for him with her legs crossed.

She looked down at herself. "Shorts?"

His lips curled. "And might I ask why you're wearing an over-large pair of cotton knickers to dinner?"

She lifted a brow. "Because it's warm outside. And these are easier to move in." She followed his eyes as they ran down her legs.

He glared at her, eyes flicking down to her knees before moving away.

"Wait." She quickly stood. "I'm sorry about last night. About all the nights, really—"

He opened his mouth. Then snapped it closed.

"I had no clue that you were uncomfortable," she rushed out, blood racing through her ears. "I wasn't aware of this issue."

"Granger," he said dryly, "I will walk out of this room right now if you don't stop talking."

"Please. I just…" She took a deep breath. "I know this is hard for you—" She flushed at her poor choice of words. "But if there's a signal you could give me — tugging your ear or something — then I'll stop. I only ask that you try. I won't be upset if... if it happens. Alright?"

He'd shut his eyes during her speech. If it weren't for his pink cheekbones, she'd have thought he hadn't heard her.

Then, after what felt like ages — a tip of his head.

"Good." Her lungs dragged in air again.

His eyes flew open, and he quickly moved towards his usual chair.

Swallowing, Hermione stopped him with, "I thought we'd try something different today."

Draco paused and looked back at her like she was about to unleash a Blast-Ended Skrewt on him. She sat, patting the cushion next to her on the chaise.

"What are we 'trying?'" he grumbled, coming to sit as far from her as possible.

She pulled the table with the food and wine close to them. "I thought we'd start fresh. That chair has… history. Besides, I doubt we'll always sit in that armchair in the Lounge. There are couches as well."

He rolled his eyes but said nothing as she moved closer. He seemed momentarily pleased that he could eat his potatoes without reaching around her hip to do so. But that quickly vanished when she tucked her legs up onto the chaise, tilting her knees toward his thigh. He glared down at her bare legs once before continuing to chew.

Hermione watched him from the corner of her eye as he ate. His wrist was light but firm as he handled his knife. He always finished chewing one bite before starting to cut the next piece of meat. She watched his pointed jaw work, remembering the taste of him there.

She drank deeply. And stared at her empty glass until he finished.

Setting his knife and fork down, he shifted the small table away from them and stared down at his hands, waiting. She put down her wine glass and offered him his full goblet. He declined.

She took a deep breath. "We should practice you initiating things."

He swallowed slowly. "Initiating."

"Yes. You…kissing me instead." He opened his mouth, and she cut him off. "Not on the mouth." She refrained from rolling her eyes. "But other places."

He cracked his neck. "What we do is enough, Granger."

"No, it's not! Flint always touches Penelope. Pucey is practically attached to Mortensen's neck. And don't get me started on Goyle." She climbed to sit on her knees next to him, facing his profile. "None of the other men seem afraid of their Lots but you—"

"Think I'm afraid, do you?" he growled, suddenly turning to face her.

She stared into his hot eyes, watching the way they flashed at her, lazily tracing her eyes and lips. Her breath hitched, finding he was hovering on the edge of something — the same cliff that beckoned her, pulling her in.

Swallowing, heart beating loudly enough to drown out her screaming logic, she slowly arched a brow. "I don't know."

Heat coursed through her, dizzy and overpowering, pushing her forward as she slipped one leg out from underneath her and tossed it over his lap. Slowly sinking to straddle him, holding his gaze. "Prove to me that you aren't."

She noticed how dark his eyes had become, almost black to the edges. A sharp inhale, then he lifted his hands and placed them on her knees. She felt her thighs tense. He slid his palms up, running over her exposed skin, rounding her hips and holding her there.

She braced herself on the back of the chaise, and before she could prepare, he was leaning forward, stretching to connect his lips to her jaw.

Her mind went blank.

His lips parted, and kissed her skin.

Viktor had kissed her jaw before. She hadn't liked it. His shaved beard had scratched at her, and she'd pulled away, claiming to be ticklish.

But Hermione's mouth fell open now, feeling a skilled pair of lips work their way over her jaw, towards her ear. Her eyes were glazed over, and beginning to flutter closed.

She leaned forward into him, and felt him relax back against the couch, her torso gravitating towards him and her neck tilting open.

The first scrape of his teeth against her neck had her hips shifting. Her gasp was silent, but she knew he felt it because he did it again, and again, and again—

Suddenly his hands held her hips in a punishing grip, and only then did she realize she'd been rolling them against his thighs. She froze, flushing with embarrassment, but then his tongue laved against the spot his teeth had abused, and she sighed into his ear.

His hands slid up to the dip in her waist. His mouth moved to her shoulder, kissing the open collar, moving his lips expertly over her skin.

Was she any good at this when she'd been the one mouthing at his skin? Did it feel like this for him every time?

His face turned, and she heard a harsh exhale in her ear before his lips pulled her earlobe into his mouth—

She moaned, her thighs slipping open, sliding herself right up against his front.

He was hard again. Hermione felt music in her veins.

He tried to push her back, tried to create space between them, but it was too late. She already knew.

She tilted her head back and found him grimacing, eyes screwed shut, hands still squeezing her hips. Hermione waited. And then tentatively wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

"We're both adults here," she said. Their breath was hot, mixing between their faces. "Adjust your trousers and get on with it."

His eyes shot open, glaring at her. She looked down at his lips, and widened her thighs again, so his erection pressed against her core. He gasped, and before he could move, she rolled her hips forward like she'd seen the girls do.

Draco's head flew back, smacking into the back of the couch. "Fuck."

She dipped her lips to his exposed neck, kissing along his throat, trying to replicate what he'd done to her. Her teeth scraped against him, and his arms slid around her waist, pulling her closer. Her hands sunk into his hair. She tried rolling against him again, her tongue licking beneath his ear, and a low groan rumbled from his chest, vibrating against her, shivering her.

She tilted her lips to his ear. "Am I doing this right?" She rocked her hips forward again, and a low sigh filled her ears. He was hard and twitching against her.

She pulled back to look at his face, wondering what Draco Malfoy looked like when she was grinding her body against his, debauching him, drawing moans from his lips.

He stared into her eyes, his hair falling over his forehead, rumpled from her fingers. She bit her lip, keeping the millions of things she longed for inside of her chest. She had to watch, had to see his face as she moved. Had to know if his eyes rolled back or glazed over—

She brought their hips together again, and both of their mouths fell open, eyes wide and needy.

He groaned, and she gazed down at his lips. She thought maybe if she could have this moment forever, it could make up for the thousands of missed kisses and lost opportunities and unfulfilled pleasure that—

His lips pressed against hers.

She moaned instantly, wiggling against his front, trying to press closer through their clothes. His tongue was in her mouth again, and she lost control of her hands. They slipped down his chest, running across his ribs, sliding down and around his waist. His hands grabbed her face, holding the hair behind her ears as his hips began to thrust up into hers.

Something rolled against her just right, and she cried out into his mouth. He tried to recreate it as her hands squeezed his jumper in her fists, and her eyelids fluttered, her breath panting into his mouth as his lips passed over her.

He found it a third time, and she gasped, "Draco," against his mouth, and then she was tilting sideways and dragged down by a current until her back slammed into the soft cushions of the chaise beneath her.

Draco was above her, slipping between her legs so his hips could continue rolling against hers. His mouth dropped to her neck again, moving quickly, roughly, claiming her skin as his own. His hips thrust against hers, and it was so much like how she thought sex could be, how overwhelming, how it rocked her, that a high-pitched sigh left her throat.

One of his hands grabbed her knee, his fingers squeezing the bare skin of her calf and thigh, running smoothly over her. His other had a fist full of her hair, ruining her plait, tilting her head to the side as he sucked at her neck.

She could hear her heavy breathing in the room, accompanying the sound of the chaise squeaking, its wood groaning.

His tongue swirled on her neck.

"Draco… I—"

His hand lifted to her waist, bunching the fabric of her top and tugging it out of her shorts.

"Okay?" he rasped against her throat.

"Yes. Please—"

His hand was under her top, sliding along her ribs, his hips jumping against hers, thumping that spot she rubbed last night while thinking of him, thinking of exactly this—

"Oh, dear," a silky voice cut through her haze, freezing her in its familiarity. "That chaise is from the 16th century."

Draco was off her faster than lightning, tumbling to the floor, hiding his groin behind his hands. Hermione bolted upright and met the amused gaze of Lucius Malfoy from where he stood in the doorway.

"Father," Draco groaned. "It wasn't…We haven't—"

"It's practicing!" Hermione squeaked, yanking her top down, pulling at her shorts. "For… for Edinburgh. It was my idea—"

Lucius simply lifted a brow at the two of them as they attempted to stutter their way through.

"Do spare me your flimsy excuses," he smirked. "From what my wife has told me, it seems we need to get Miss Granger on some form of contraceptive." He glanced her over. "And soon."

Hermione's cheeks flamed, and she slapped a hand to her mouth. "No. No, I promise we were just—"

"It's for Edinburgh," Draco repeated, having stood up and put as much distance between himself and the chaise as possible.

"Well, that won't be necessary," Lucius said, an unpleasant expression crossing his face. "You won't be visiting Edinburgh this Friday." Draco shot a look at her, panic in his eyes. But before Hermione's mind could process, Lucius said, "We are to attend dinner at the Lestrange estate this Friday."

Lucius turned his eyes on Hermione, his eyes dangerously amused. "All of us."

All of us.

Hermione heard her heartbeat drum in her ears.

Bellatrix. She was going to see Bellatrix again.

"Father." She heard Draco's voice from far away. "You can't possibly be suggesting—"

"Am I in the habit of making 'suggestions,' Draco?"

Silence.

Lucius rolled his shoulders — the smallest of movements. "The Dark Lord has observed that your aunt and I seem… somewhat strained. Appearances must be maintained. Your aunt and uncle have invited us to dinner, and they insisted that Miss Granger be included."

Lucius turned his cold eyes on Hermione where she sat askew on the chaise, her chest still pounding.

Draco shifted behind her. "Surely there's an excuse that can be made—"

"Your mother and I have this under control. All four of us will be attending, and I expect you both to be on your best behavior." Lucius looked from Draco to Hermione, his gaze catching on her rumpled top and mussed hair. She felt her face heat as he studied her, his lip curling in amusement. "Well? Don't you two have Occlumency to be practicing?"

Hermione blinked, then scrambled off the couch. She nearly collided with Draco as she rushed to the door, her mind racing with visions of sharp knives and echoes of cackling laughter —

"Miss Granger," Lucius drawled. "A word?"

Her hand froze on the doorknob. She turned slowly, seeing Draco do the same behind her.

Lucius cocked his head, then an eyebrow. "You are dismissed, Draco."

She watched Draco swallow.

"Anything you have to say, you can—"

"Perhaps in my absence," Lucius cut in, clasping his hands behind his back, "you've forgotten who is master of this house." His eyes glittered as he watched his words land. "Run along."

Hermione's mouth went dry as she watched Draco clench and unclench his fists, then finally turn to move slowly through the doorway. He kept his eyes ahead of him, a muscle twitching in his jaw. She listened to his footsteps disappear down the corridor.

Lucius watched her with a twist to his lips — like a hawk staring down a field mouse.

"My wife tells me that you have a partially-functioning reproductive system," he said, as if discussing the weather over tea. "I suppose congratulations are in order."

Hermione felt her cheeks blush crimson as she tried to think of a response.

"And might I ask, Miss Granger," he said, hands still behind his back as he strolled towards her, "whether it was your intention to carry the Malfoy heir by concealing this? Did you believe a pregnancy would bring you additional protection?"

Her eyes popped, and her breath choked in her throat.

"N-no! No, not at all!" She gaped at him, trying to form coherent words. "It was made perfectly clear from the beginning that I had no cause for concern in… in that area. There was no need to mention it!"

"Hmm," he drawled. "And yet, my poor chaise begs to differ."

"No, we're not— This wasn't—" Hermione squeezed her face in her hands. "This hasn't— before."

"Before?"

"No! This was the first!" Lucius's eyebrow raised even further, and Hermione groaned, shaking her head. "This hasn't ever! I swear it. It just — no."

A long pause.

"Excellent," Lucius said dryly. "Your eloquence continues to impress, Miss Granger."

Hermione pressed her eyes closed as he brushed past her, wishing her embarrassment could swallow her whole.

"One last thing." Hermione took a deep breath before turning to face him. "I expect you to take preparation for Friday evening seriously. If my son is unable to focus"—he looked her up and down, as if he couldn't find that believable in the least—"I'll have your bedroom moved. Next to my study."

She stood, dumbfounded by his meaning, until suddenly it dawned on her. She jerked forward. "Of course we'll—

Lucius silenced her with a raised hand. She bit her lip, her cheeks burning impossibly hot. And then: "To your room, Miss Granger. I expect to find you fully Occluded the next time I lay my eyes on you." His eyes dropped to her bare knees. "And fully clothed."

Her face was on fire as she scurried through the door, relishing her dismissal and longing for the days when Lucius Malfoy was in Romania.

~*~

The next morning, three new Occlumency books arrived on her breakfast tray. There wasn't a note. There didn't have to be one. She knew better than to seek him out, so she locked herself away and studied. The only breaks she took were to force down a few bites of each meal, as Mippy had charmed the tray to start nudging her if she ignored it for too long.

On Friday morning, after countless careful hours of meditation and mentally slicing pages out of books, Narcissa came to visit her when Hermione was deep in her Occlumency.

"I know you must be nervous for this evening."

Hermione nodded, her mind beginning to prick with reemerging memories. Grey eyes and rolling hips, a silky voice and hot wave of embarrassment—

She blinked, tucking them away.

Narcissa moved through the sitting area, crossing to the windows.

"I always thought of my sister as eccentric," she said. "But most don't have the luxury of seeing her that way." A long sigh. "These days, she is unpredictable and dangerous — even to me. But I do promise that I will do everything in my power to manage the situation this evening."

A book shivered on a high shelf, and Hermione gasped as her pages fluttered open to freckles and spearmint and the Gryffindor common room. She screwed her eyes shut, breathing steadily until it closed.

Her eyelids flickered open, and she found Narcissa staring at her, her expression soft and concerned.

"I've heard that Ron Weasley is being kept at the Lestrange Estate," Hermione said dully.

Narcissa took a sharp breath. "Mr. Weasley is being held at Rabastan's property. You won't see him tonight."

She nodded and tucked the information away, staring out her windows. The heavy, earthy tome smelling of spearmint was still.

"Hermione," Narcissa said gently. "Just try your best. My sister already has a sense of your accommodations and your treatment, and I'm sure she's told her husband as well. If anything slips through, I will handle it."

She nodded again, eyes fixed on the pond outside. The calm waters that rippled with the breeze.

"In fact," Narcissa continued, "the one thing she cannot find out is that you have learned Occlumency."

Hermione blinked. A shelf collapsed in her mind, and she flinched when another nearly followed.

She turned to find Narcissa's shrewd eyes on her. Hermione rubbed her temples, tumbling the idea around her sore mind.

"Because then she would know that my magic isn't suppressed," she surmised. "That you haven't been giving me the potions."

Narcissa nodded. "She's kept several things to herself, but her willingness to look the other way depends on her believing you're under lock and key."

Narcissa broke off, asking her something, but Hermione couldn't process the words. Her body felt flimsy and numb, her brain dizzy. Her knees began to buckle, and Narcissa flew to her side, helping her sit in a chair. She called for Mippy, and Hermione pressed her eyes closed, her head pounding. Mippy returned with a potion, and Narcissa helped her drink it. Once Hermione's vision stopped blurring, Narcissa poured them both tea and took a seat across from her, perched on the edge of her cushion.

"So what am I supposed to do when she tries to read my mind?" Hermione set down her saucer and curled up in her chair, etiquette giving way to exhaustion.

Narcissa sipped her tea. "What technique are you using? A box? A drawer? Perhaps a sealed cave?"

"A bookshelf." Hermione sighed, rubbing her temples. "Books of memories. Pages of moments."

"Very useful," she said. "And you are taking pages out?"

Hermione nodded.

"I know a thing or two about that." Narcissa's voice was quiet and low, lulling. "Would you like me to assist you?"

The air left Hermione's lungs as she turned to look at her. Narcissa's blue eyes were warm and open. Steadying. Slowly, Hermione nodded again.

Narcissa hovered her teacup and saucer over her lap, her spine held straight. "Perhaps it is time to create a new book," she said on a low hum, the words carrying to Hermione on a platinum thread, looping through her eyes and entering her mind like gossamer. "Perhaps," Narcissa said, "you can visualize only the things you want to present."

The words whispered into her mind. A slow thread without a needle wove through her bookshelves, tapping at covers and rustling pages. Hermione breathed deeply, relaxing in her chair.

A leather cover appeared in front of her bookshelf, open and barren of pages. Untitled. Pages fluttered down to fill it, drifting slowly. The platinum thread curled through them, prodding some to the side, beckoning others forward.

Nott Sr. catching her eavesdropping — his cane under her chin.

The One O'Clock Gun at Edinburgh.

Voldemort hovering over her on the Malfoy's drawing room floor.

They all fluttered down, down, nestled into the leather cover.

The thread tumbled through the pages of Draco throwing her on her bed, ripping her slip open. Hermione tried to close the book, terror and humiliation and pained sympathy flooding her library, but the thread tugged more insistently, and the pages fell, joining the others.

More of Edinburgh. The dinner parties, the Lounge. Half a page of Cho kissing her while Draco watched.

Hermione's entire body tensed as the thread slithered through the pages of Draco pinning her hands to the wall, his thigh sliding between her legs. His hands on her hips as she straddled him on the chaise — her gravity flipped, back thrown on the cushion as he slipped between her legs. The platinum thread paused over his muttered, "Okay?" and as if on a needle, it wove through the page — over, under, cross stitch, over, under, cross stitch — erasing the word from history until just a pattern of platinum remained.

And finally, the thread zoomed through her shelves, turning pages, skimming words, before stopping over a memory.

Dolohov and the Mediwitches

From far away, Hermione felt her legs jerk.

The thread cut the page away from its book, letting the memory tumble down to join the others.

Hermione twitched in protest. Wouldn't it be dangerous to know what Narcissa had done? If Bellatrix knew Narcissa had Obliviated a member of the Dark Lord's inner circle—

The platinum thread shimmered through the memory, finding the moment a green light rose from her fertile ovary. Hermione watched as the thread snaked forward, twisting around the green light, twirling tight like a ball of yarn, obscuring it — and then burning red. As if the test was negative.

The thread fell away, and a red light remained.

The page sliced in half, and the moments following the reveal of the green light fluttered away. The top half fell into the book.

Weaving the spine together, the thread pushed through the pages, cinching them tight. The book glued itself together, and closed with a soft snap.

The platinum thread tapped against the front cover, weaving a title into the leather: Afternoon Tea.

She felt the thread unwind, slipping backwards, pulling away from her shelves, sliding through her eyes and returning to a pale blue gaze.

Hermione blinked, her lungs dragging in air. Narcissa Malfoy studied her, then brought her teacup to her lips, relaxing against the cushion.

Her eyes roved around the room. The walls were pink, the sun setting. The clock indicated that it had been three hours since Narcissa entered her room.

She turned back to her, mouth open. "You're a Legilimens."

Narcissa settled her teacup silently on its saucer. "It runs in the family. The Black-Rosiers are very strong with it."

A well of emotions bubbled in her chest. "Are you… Do you use it often?"

"No. Very rarely, in fact," she said with a smile. "I try to afford people their privacy." She paused halfway to her next sip. "I hope you don't mind my assistance with… several of your more private memories."

Hermione's ears burned red-hot. Narcissa had seen her and Draco together… and… well…

She looked down at the carpets. "No, I understand why those memories should be sewed in. That was… very helpful."

There was a thick silence before Narcissa spoke again. "It will remain between us, Hermione. I don't think any differently of you."

A pause as Hermione tried to shove aside her burning embarrassment and say something in an intelligent language—

"If you think there is a need, the elves can stock your cabinets with Contraceptive Potions."

Hermione's eyes snapped up. "No! No, no. No. Um…" She swallowed as Narcissa looked at her innocently from behind her teacup. "I mean to say, yes that would be necessary if we were… But we're not and…because I don't want to"—she gestured awkwardly to her stomach—"to become… Of course."

Narcissa's mouth twitched, and Hermione caught a glint in her eye before she nodded. "Of course."

"Yes."

"If the need should ever arise, please don't hesitate to ask. Mippy will be happy to assist you."

Hermione tried to wave her off, but all she managed was a croak.

"Well, I didn't mean to fluster you, dear. Please forgive any assumptions." Hermione flushed even brighter as Narcissa stood and looked at the clock. Her brow furrowed. "We leave in two hours. You should have some time alone to meditate."

The reminder made her stomach drop. Narcissa gently touched her shoulder before slipping from the room. Hermione breathed deep, filing away her mortification.

She took a bath and stared at the water, clearing her mind. She focused on the book Afternoon Tea, letting everything else fade to the back of her shelves. Whenever a memory inside shuddered her, she concentrated on the platinum thread woven through, holding her thoughts together, keeping them safe.

At ten till seven, she descended the stairs in a small, simple shift dress with flat shoes. She was to be a slave tonight and nothing more.

Draco and Lucius stood near the fireplace, speaking in low tones. They stopped when Lucius caught sight of her. He whispered one last thing to his son, and turned a lazy expression on her.

"Miss Granger," he greeted.

She nodded to him, and glanced at Draco. His eyes were on the fire, cold and distant.

Clicking heels caught their attention, and Hermione turned to see a very stern expression on Narcissa's face as she approached, wearing a structured black dress.

"We're leaving after an hour," she clipped, raising a cool brow as Lucius appraised her. "We've survived worse."

A pop sounded from behind Lucius. "Master!" a voice squeaked. "An urgent letter from Madam Lestrange!"

Lucius plucked up the note, and shook it open with a flourish. Hermione held her breath as his eyes danced across the page. A snarl pulled at his lips.

"A change of plans," he said. "Your sister's manor is 'inhospitable' at the moment. She's asked us to meet her at Rabastan's estate for dinner."

Narcissa snatched the letter, eyes narrowing as she read. "Absolutely ridiculous," she hissed. "If that's how she's going to play it—" She broke off, looking up at Hermione, her features clouding with concern.

There was a ringing in her ears, her blood moving quickly. Ron.

Hermione gave a shaky nod, then closed her eyes, pushing the earthy tome back even farther.

The clock chimed seven. Lucius tossed the Floo powder and called out the destination. Narcissa stepped through, followed by her husband.

Once the green flames had died, Draco moved for the first time. He reached into the bag, tossed the powder, and silently extended his hand. Hermione moved beside him and presented her arm, his tattooed signature glimmering in the firelight. His fingers were cold as they wrapped around her skin. He called out for Rabastan's estate, and they stepped through.

The first thing Hermione noticed was a lack of light or warmth. The fire at their backs vanished with a hiss, and she shivered violently as the chill of the entryway crept over her.

They stood in a gothic manor house — the hallway stretching before them narrower than Malfoy Manor's, but the ceilings still dizzyingly high. The smoke from the fireplace dissipated, and the black walls closed in like a void swallowing her air. The paintings on the wall started hissing at her, muttering about her dirty blood as Narcissa glared daggers at them.

Draco dropped her arm and stepped slightly in front of her. Lucius spared them a condescending sneer and continued inspecting his fingernails.

Hermione's eyes roved the ceilings. Ron was in this house, somewhere beneath these black, deadened walls. She blinked and shook her head, refocusing.

Rabastan was the younger brother — possibly in his mid-thirties. All Hermione knew about him was that he was an unmarried Death Eater — likely mediocre in rank, given how little she'd heard about him. Rabastan, Rodolphus, and Bellatrix. She'd face three enemies tonight.

Small, tittering footsteps grew nearer, and all four guests turned to see a beaten little elf limping toward them.

"Jik takes you now. Dinner this way."

Hermione scowled as Jik turned in a circle, his right knee pivoting with difficulty, and limped toward a dark hallway. There was blood trickling behind his ear, dripping down to his neck.

She felt her chest burn as she followed Lucius and Narcissa. Jik had clearly been freshly tortured, and then told to retrieve the guests. She'd never seen an elf in poorer shape, and that included the beheaded ones on the walls at Grimmauld Place—

Cold fingers tapped her wrist. She looked up to see Draco, fully Occluded, staring off after his parents.

"Focus, Granger." The only words he'd spoken to her in days.

She nodded, and his fingers drifted off her skin before he began moving again. By the time they caught up to Lucius and Narcissa at two large doors, Hermione was thinking only of a lake with still waters, and a book laid open on the shore titled, Afternoon Tea.

The doors pushed open with a tortured creak, and Jik stepped aside. The party paused at the entrance. Hermione's eyes caught on a grand chandelier with burnt-down candles and dripping wax. Similar sconces decorated the black walls, and there was a massive oil painting sprawling the width of the far wall. The magical landscape depicted a battle from Roman times with soldiers running through the field and slaughtering each other.

Narcissa moved first, followed by Lucius. Once Hermione's vision cleared, she found a large table set for a formal dinner. A branching candelabra lay in the center like an overturned Acromantula, its candlelight illuminating the rest of the room. Hermione steadied her breathing as she skimmed the faces staring back at them — more than she'd expected.

Chairs scraped.

"Ah," a sing-song voice called from the head of the table. "The Malfoys, ladies and gents."

Bellatrix Lestrange stood in an opulent black ball gown, complete with puffing sleeves and cinched waist. Her curls were carelessly pinned back, her arms opened wide in a mocking welcome.

"Good evening, Bella," Narcissa said coolly. She looked her sister up and down. "My. But it seems we are underdressed."

Bellatrix's plum lips twisted in a tight smile. "Only full evening dress for a dinner with the Malfoys."

"Dear me," said Lucius, stepping past his wife. "Is this your evening's best? I didn't realize how much Twilfitt and Tattings is suffering."

Bellatrix's eyes narrowed dangerously before flashing a wolfish smile. "Mind your manners, brother. We have a special guest tonight."

Hermione blinked, eyes flying over the room.

The two Lestrange brothers sat across from Bellatrix — Rabastan at the foot of the table, and Rodolphus to his right. A young girl in a thin dress was against the wall behind them. And across the room, beneath the Roman painting, Marcus Flint smirked at her from his position at the sideboard. Penelope stood next to him, her eyes downcast.

Draco's shoulders tensed from his position slightly in front of her.

"Ah," Lucius drawled, his eyes on Flint. "How curious that you described this as a 'family affair.'"

Bellatrix leered, her lips pulled taut. "Things change, Lucius." Abruptly, her features brightened, and she swept backward, inviting them in. "Apologies for the change of location. Thankfully, Rabastan was happy to oblige."

None of the Malfoys moved.

"Marcus," Draco said, a sharp edge to his voice. "What brings you here?"

Flint's eyes glinted even in the distance. "Business with Rabs. Your aunt was generous enough to invite me to stay for dinner."

Narcissa smoothed her hair over her shoulder and offered a papery smile. "Shall we sit?"

Bellatrix gestured for Narcissa to sit next to her at the head of the table. Lucius approached Rabastan and Rodolphus, shaking their hands with barely-concealed disdain. Hermione assumed a blank expression as she sidestepped against the wall, following Draco.

"Draco, darling," Bellatrix sang. They both froze. "Come sit next to your auntie." She patted the place setting to her left.

Draco's jaw ticked before he slowly pivoted and crossed the room to take the chair across from his mother. Lucius sat to Narcissa's right. Hermione kept her eyes down as she moved toward the wall behind Draco.

As soon as her gaze flicked up, she caught Narcissa's cold eyes. Narcissa looked away, turning to Rabastan's booming laugh, and Hermione quickly did the same. But she could feel two black, predatory eyes boring into her even as she studied her shoes.

Hermione's stomach dropped at the sudden realization of the purpose behind the night's twists. Bellatrix and her husband were aware of her treatment at the Manor, and had kept the information from Voldemort for some reason. But with other witnesses — Flint, Rabastan Lestrange — the Malfoys couldn't protect her tonight.

She quieted her fear with deep breaths, focusing on the dark wood.

"Mudblood!" Hermione jumped.

The first course had appeared on the table: a murky soup that Lucius was currently sniffing at with a curled upper lip.

"Fetch the bread basket." Bellatrix didn't spare her a glance, but Hermione knew the command was for her.

Her eyes frantically scanned the table. When she found nothing, she looked to Narcissa, but she was staring at her soup, her lips in a thin line as her sister watched her. Then Lucius caught Hermione's eye, and looked pointedly at the sideboard — where the bread basket sat.

Hermione scurried around the table and maneuvered the giant basket into her arms. Stepping carefully to Bellatrix's side, she reached for the serving tongs. A sizzling pain shot up her fingers when she touched them. She yelped before she could stop herself, nearly upending the basket.

Bellatrix turned to glower at her, but quickly cackled, giving the game away. "I forgot about the curses on the silver to keep dirty little thieves away." Bellatrix turned to Draco and whispered, "Can't have a Mudblood mucking up our things, can we?"

Taking a shuddering breath, Hermione turned back to the sideboard, grabbed a spare serviette, and gingerly wrapped it around the tongs. She moved back to Bellatrix and steadily plucked a piece of bread to set down on her small plate.

Bellatrix gasped loudly, and Hermione's chest lurched.

Every mouth and hand at the table froze. Even Rodolphus, who hadn't spoken more than ten words, turned to stare at her.

"You dare serve a guest before the lord of the manor?" Bellatrix breathed, placing her hand over her chest. "Where are your manners, Mudblood?"

Hermione bowed her head and took a shaky step backward, chest still thumping. She could vaguely hear Flint and Rabastan giggling into their napkins.

"Pardon her ignorance," Narcissa clipped. "We've always found house elves to be superior table servants."

Hermione walked the length of the table to where Rabastan sat, still chuckling.

"How unfortunate," Bellatrix responded. "I'm sure she could learn quickly with the proper motivation."

Hermione swallowed, and served Rabastan, feeling his gaze slither down her body. Her dress was conservative, but the fabric was too thin, catching her curves when she moved.

"I will discipline her as I see fit, Bella," Narcissa said, smoothing her napkin.

She stiffly moved counterclockwise, to Rodolphus next.

Bellatrix gave Flint an apologetic pout. "Unfortunately, my sister and I have always disagreed on the topic of 'discipline.'" She sighed. "It's the same with my dear brother-in-law, I'm afraid."

"Few can afford your methods of 'discipline,' Bellatrix," said Lucius. "What elf are you on now? The eighth?"

"Ninth," Rodolphus grunted. Bellatrix glared at him, but he didn't look up.

"A terrible waste, if you ask me," Narcissa said primly, letting her spoon drift through her soup. "Servants thrive under order and a certain degree of respect. Such draconian measures are unnecessary."

"'Respect!'" Bella sneered. She turned back to Flint just as Hermione arrived at his elbow. "Marcus, dear. Tell me, how do you discipline your whore when she forgets her place?"

Hermione glanced at Penelope, whose eyes were fixed on the floor.

Flint chuckled. "An excellent question, Mrs. Lestrange. But she doesn't forget. Not anymore."

She moved to Draco next, who had been completely silent since he sat down. He'd had a few spoonfuls of soup, but his wine goblet remained untouched. Hermione chanced a sideways glance and found him staring at his bowl, his eyes glazed over.

"And tell me," Bella said, "does your whore sleep in the dungeon? Perhaps your closet, like Rabastan's?"

A muscle in Draco's jaw pulsed as she set the bread on his plate.

"Well, she sleeps in my bed now. But in the beginning, when she misbehaved, she had a cage down the hall." He smirked. "Close enough for convenience, but too far to hear her rattling it."

Hermione gripped the basket tightly to her ribs.

"Of course," Bellatrix cooed. "And does she have her own room?"

"Not yet," said Flint, grinning, "but I've heard some inspiring stories about Draco's 'dungeon.'"

Rabastan chuckled.

"I meant some place safe and warm," said Bellatrix, leaning forward. "Does your little Mudblood have her own four-poster and en-bathroom suite?"

Hermione's feet stumbled.

Flint laughed. "She's a slave, not a house guest."

Bellatrix cackled, the sound shooting down Hermione's spine. Then she snapped her fingers, pointing to her bread plate.

Hermione slowly approached her left side and served her a piece of bread. Before she could retreat, Bellatrix seized her wrist. Hermione gasped, dropping the tongs with a clatter.

"Such pretty scars, Mudblood." She yanked her closer and ran her fingers over the markings on Hermione's arm. Another tug, and her black eyes locked on Hermione's. "I have more designs in mind. We could make a work of art out of you."

Hermione stared blankly back at her, even as her heart pumped furiously. Bellatrix's nails started curling, cutting into her skin.

"I, too, would like some bread," Narcissa said icily. "Whenever you're done playing with the help, Bella."

One last dig, then Bellatrix released her. Hermione grabbed the tongs and scrambled away.

Bellatrix raised a derisive brow. "Who are you fooling? You never ate bread in your life." She tore into her roll with the grace of a wild cat, dipped it into her soup, and chewed slowly, never breaking her sister's gaze.

Narcissa's lips curled.

"Unfortunately, the bread is the only edible thing on the table," Lucius cut in. He turned to Flint before Bellatrix could reply. "So. Looking forward to the ceremony next week?"

"I am, sir," Flint replied. "It's a great honor."

Draco's head snapped up. "What's this?"

Hermione placed bread on Narcissa's plate, her breath shallow.

"I'm receiving the Mark next week. Along with Theo and Greg."

"Congratulations," Draco said coldly. He turned back to his soup.

"I'm surprised you didn't know," Flint said innocently. "Theo and Greg are such close friends of yours."

Draco's spoon paused above his bowl. "I've been a bit preoccupied with the efforts in France and Italy." He swirled his soup. "And there's no newsletter between us all, as you'll come to find out."

Having placed bread on Lucius's plate, Hermione moved to return the basket to the sideboard.

"Mudblood!" Bellatrix called. "Refill the wine."

Hermione froze, fighting the urge to look at the two other slave girls against the walls. She blinked, filing her emotions away as she exchanged the basket for the wine bottle.

"I think it's high time," said Bellatrix. "You'll make an excellent addition to the Dark Lord's elite, Marcus. As for the Goyle whelp, well, that remains to be seen. I suppose he can't be worse than his father. I heard Gringotts finally declared him dead."

Rodolphus grunted in assent.

Bellatrix rolled her eyes and took a long dreg of wine. "And I know Ted is anxious to see Theodore take the Mark. He thinks offering up a capable son might help the Dark Lord be more… patient with some of his own shortcomings. But apparently his heart isn't in it at all." She smiled over at Lucius. "There's nothing quite like your only heir disgracing the family name. Isn't that right?"

Hermione reached Rabastan at the head of the table again.

"It would be devastating, indeed," said Lucius, lazily reaching for his wine. "Not that you or Rodolphus would know anything about heirs."

Narcissa shot him a heated glare.

"I suppose not." Bellatrix's smile widened as she leaned in. "You see, I chose power over children. Infinitely more satisfying."

Hermione moved to refill Rodolphus's glass.

"We seem to have differing views on 'power,' Bella," Narcissa said sharply. "The last time I checked, you still answer to a man."

Bellatrix's eyes whipped to her sister's. "The second you push a man's child out of you, you're his slave." She nodded at the two silent Lots on the wall. "No better than any of these girls. My only master is the Dark Lord."

She drained her glass and slammed it on the table. Slowly, stomach twisting with dread, Hermione approached Bellatrix with the bottle.

"Speaking of brats—" Bellatrix reached up, grabbed a fistful of Hermione's hair, and tugged her down. The bottle slipped from her fingers and crashed to the floor, splattering blood red wine everywhere.

"Bella—!"

"You can't serve like an elf, you can't cook like an elf. But surely you're useful for some things," Bellatrix hissed in her face. "Looking forward to a long life on your back, darling?"

And then sharp claws dug into Hermione's mind. Black tunnels she couldn't see the end of bore into her.

The page of Afternoon Tea fluttered. But they were the only pages that did.

Bellatrix flew through her memories. Dolohov and the Mediwitches, the light turning red above her hip. Draco tearing her slip open. Trembling on the stones at Voldemort's feet. Draco pressing her against a wall, grinding against her on a chaise.

The claws in her mind threatened to shred the platinum string binding her together, but it held firm. Distantly, she heard a whimper she recognized as her own; a spoon clattered into an empty soup bowl to her left.

Bellatrix retracted, scratching on her way out, and Hermione's body was dropped to the ground as a satisfied laugh grated her ears. The glass from the broken bottle was nothing to the shredding of her mind, the pages of Afternoon Tea bleeding through its spine.

She tried to refocus, her eyes hazy and seeing red. The wine and her own blood coiling together on the stone floor beneath her cut knees.

A disgusted sound from above her. "Draco, come clean up after your pet."

Silence.

"What are you waiting for?" the voice hissed.

A cold hand on her arm shocked sensation into her. Draco hauled her up and muttered a spell to banish the blood, wine, and glass. He roughly pushed her to lean against the wall when she couldn't stand on her own. She felt the skin of her knees knitting back together. A slight brush of his hand on her ribs when she swayed, steadying her — and then he was gone, taking his seat.

"Speaking of pets," Bellatrix sang, "Rabastan, Marcus, why don't you go check on yours? We need to have a little family chat."

Hermione's eyes blinked open, the room still spinning, but coming back into focus. A throbbing pain behind her temples, but not nearly as bad as she'd expected.

It had worked. Bellatrix had fallen straight in their trap, and was none the wiser for it—

Chairs scraped backwards.

"Take the whores with you. I'm sure the Mudblood would delight in seeing her old boyfriend again."

"She stays." Hermione lifted her head to see Narcissa's cold blue eyes boring into her sister's, her posture rigid with anger. "She goes nowhere without Draco."

Bellatrix sneered and turned to her brother-in-law. "Go on, then. But be sure to let the ginger know who our dinner guests are."

Ron.

Hermione listened to the shuffling of feet as her blood raced. She was so close to him, but so impossibly far away.

The doors clicked closed. She was alone with the Malfoys, Bellatrix, and Rodolphus. There was a stilted silence before Bellatrix spoke.

"I see Draco is finally enjoying his plaything. It's an improvement, I suppose, but if you ask me, the boy is still far too soft." Bellatrix took a deep sip from her wine, eyeing Lucius over the rim. Lucius stared back at her impassively. "I must confess myself quite disappointed with his performance in Italy."

Time seemed to slow. The pain behind Hermione's eyes faded, and she watched the entire family stare at each other as if wands had been drawn.

Narcissa shifted, folding her hands beneath her chin and leaning on her elbows. "I'm sure you wish for someone to ask, 'What went wrong in Italy?' So I will ask it."

Hermione could see Narcissa and Lucius plainly, Bellatrix's profile, and the back of Draco's head from this vantage point. She watched Draco's shoulder blades twitch before his ribs expanded.

"I did my task. The Minister is alive. The insurgents were disabled—"

"Twenty rioters and would-be assassins Stunned, and not a single Killing Curse cast." Bellatrix tutted mockingly. "I did show you how to cast one, didn't I? In the Manor basement on the rats and vermin?"

A pause.

"Of course, Aunt. I was being cautious. No need for a massacre in a volatile country—"

"The Dark Lord approved any and all force necessary to protect Minister Romano." Bellatrix's fingers circled the rim of her glass, like a cat playing with dinner. "In fact, he would have been quite pleased to learn that you disposed of a group of violent dissenters. Instead you left that honor to Dolohov." Hermione saw Draco's left fist clench in his lap. "Of course, you're like your father in that regard," she continued lightly. "Far more interested in elbow-rubbing and politics than in getting your hands dirty."

Hermione dared to look up at Lucius. He was perfectly still, his eyes flitting back and forth between his sister-in-law and his son. Only his lips moved as he lilted, "We all have different strengths."

Bellatrix tilted her head. "Are you sure the Dark Lord would agree that Draco's — timidness — is a strength?"

A scream from below their feet — somewhere in the bowels of the manor. Hermione's air constricted and she jumped violently. She knew that scream. She looked up at the family — not a single brow arched in interest. Not even Rodolphus took his eyes off his wine glass. She dug her fingers into her palms.

Narcissa lifted her chin off her hands, stared her sister down, and said, "Are you threatening my son?"

Bellatrix scoffed. "Don't be absurd. He's the future of the Blacks." She grabbed Narcissa's wrist, pulling her hand close and weaving their fingers together. Then her anger seemed to vanish. She sent her sister a soft smile that sent chills down Hermione's back. "I can protect him and his weak heart. And I'll do it for you, Cissy."

She reached for Draco with her other hand, plucking up his limp wrist and clasping their fingers together. She tilted her head, pressing her cheek to their clasped hands. "Until he's strong enough to kill it," she whispered.

Bile crept up the back of Hermione's throat. She directed her attention to Lucius, watching carefully across the table, seething.

Another scream from below, choking off and then garbling into a wild pitch. Hermione looked down, imagining Ron's bloody and beaten body thrashing in pain. Blinking rapidly, she breathed in and out. A lake, clear and calm—

Narcissa peeled herself away from her sister. "We have very different ideas of what makes a weak heart, Bella."

Bellatrix looked down at her empty right hand, like the sight of it offended her. Her eyes turned to ice. "Perhaps we do. Your need for affection outweighed your sense of loyalty long ago. Now, you're no better than our mother — a simpering housecat whose purpose is to host tea during the day, spread your legs at night, and pop out children nine months later." She snatched her wine glass, lip curling as she brought it to her mouth. "And you weren't even particularly good at that, were you?"

"That's enough." Lucius's voice shook the room, his tone so low, Hermione had to search for the source. The plates and glasses trembled with his restrained magic.

"Ooo," Bellatrix giggled, stretching to whisper into Draco's ear, "Daddy's home."

Lucius pushed back his chair and rose to a looming height. "You have threatened my son, insulted my wife, and, frankly, served the most appalling soup I've ever had the displeasure of tasting. Excuse me, but it's ten past the hour I agreed to suffer through."

Bellatrix cackled, still grasping Draco's hand.

"Always so quick to get to it." She turned to Narcissa. "I knew he wasn't one for foreplay." Lucius stood stiffly, refusing to take the bait. Bellatrix's face fell into a mock pout. "All I wanted was to spend a little time as a family before Draco goes to Switzerland."

A thick silence settled over the room. Hermione could count the heartbeats between them all, hardly daring to breathe.

"Switzerland," Lucius repeated incredulously. "I thought Switzerland was your project."

"Yes, well the Dark Lord thinks that a Malfoy's political cunning may be just what we need over there. And since you just returned from such a long assignment, Lucius, I thought this would be the perfect opportunity for Draco to rise to the challenge."

Narcissa stood, icy rage radiating off her shoulders. "So, because you've failed to infiltrate the Swiss Ministry, you're dragging my son into your mess? Holding him ransom for — for what?"

"Failed is a strong word, love," Bellatrix cooed, flashing her teeth. "I'd prefer to call it a little delay. And on the contrary, I'm taking your son under my wing. We're going to strengthen him." She shook Draco's hand, and Hermione could see his white knuckles clenching hers.

"This is preposterous—"

"I think we can all agree that the Dark Lord would be most pleased with the Malfoy family if Draco helped secure Switzerland." Her voice dropped. "Pleased enough to overlook certain weaknesses — which I'm sure we all hope will remain a secret."

Bellatrix's eyes suddenly slid to her, and Hermione shivered, her skin hot and itchy. She quickly turned her gaze to the floor.

"I'll help you, Draco," she heard Bellatrix hum. "Your father's blood may be weak, but you're still half a Black."

"Enough," Lucius snarled. He shifted to Narcissa. "I will speak to the Dark Lord. Switzerland is in a delicate situation after your sister's many mistakes, and I will make it clear—"

"It's already settled, Lucius. The Dark Lord has agreed." A pause. "I'll keep him under my protection, of course."

Before he could reply, the doors swung open, drawing Hermione's eyes and startling the room. Rabastan, Flint, and the girls were back. Hermione hadn't even realized the screaming had stopped.

"It was quick this time," Rabastan said. "He passed out early."

Hermione swayed on her feet, bracing herself on the wall.

Narcissa's face was pale with rage. "Gentlemen, you'll excuse my sister and I, and our husbands. We have a private matter to discuss. Rabastan, may we use your study?"

Rabastan nodded his acceptance and she moved briskly to the doorway, Lucius just behind her. Rodolphus abruptly stood and followed, grabbing his wine.

Bellatrix pushed back from the table with a screech of wood. She dropped Draco's hand and patted his cheek. Hermione kept her eyes down as she passed, tucking the sound of fresh screaming into a heavy, earthy tome.

Once the door closed behind the four of them, Flint said, "Well, I hate to inform you Rabs, but your elf can't cook worth shit." He clapped Rabastan on the back. "Shall we just pass through then?"

"I have a sitting room just across the hall," Rabstan said, grabbing several empty wine glasses. "We can get comfortable." His hand slid around the waist of his Lot.

Hermione's heart raced. She hadn't thought this evening would be anything like the Lounge. Draco stood abruptly, straightening his collar. "I should get going."

"You can't be serious." Flint shook his head. "Where do you have to be?"

Draco shrugged. "The night is young. Maybe we'll catch the end of the Ring Match. I hear Finnigan is back."

"Draco, come catch up," Rabastan coaxed. "I never get to spend time with you. And I haven't had a proper look at your Mudblood."

Flint wrapped his arms around Penelope's waist. "No one gets a proper look." He grinned. "Come on, Draco. An hour at least. Don't tell me you're as much of a prat at a family dinner as you are at Edinburgh."

She watched Draco's jaw tick before he smiled tightly. "Twist my arm, why don't you?"

Rabastan laughed and jerked his head in the direction of the door. Draco pushed in his chair methodically and grabbed her elbow to lead her out. She brought her other hand up and squeezed his fingers, thinking about the way Bellatrix had touched him. Her mind drifted to Switzerland, but she forced it aside.

They were led into a small sitting room, just as dark and ghostly as the rest of the manor. Flint and Penelope dropped into an armchair while Rabastan went to the drink cart. His Lot took a sofa, and Draco led Hermione to the other matching sofa. She let him sit first, then tucked her legs on the couch and leaned into him, trying to look comfortable.

"Can I get Miss Granger anything to drink?" Rabastan turned a smile on her. "Perhaps some wine with a splash of something else?"

He pulled a small bottle of clear liquid from his inside pocket and shook it tantalizingly.

Flint laughed. "Draco doesn't need that potion, Rabs. His slut is wild for him without it, isn't that right?"

Hermione said nothing, feeling the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Draco made a noncommittal noise as Rabastan popped a bottle of champagne, poured two glasses, and split the potion between them. Flint joined him at the cart, and they each added a hair to a glass before offering them to the girls.

Draco stiffened besides her as Penelope and the other girl obediently drank their champagne, tipping their glasses back and swallowing like they'd done it a thousand times before.

Hermione tried to Occlude, but her mind groaned in protest, still depleted from Bellatrix's attack. Her knee began to bounce, and Draco placed his hand on her thigh, calming her.

"Well, gentlemen"—he quickly stood—"Never been much of voyeur myself, so we'll just see ourselves out—"

"Relax," Rabastan smirked, pouring three tumblers of Firewhisky. "This one's a new concoction I've been helping Marcus with. Takes some time to kick in, but once it hits, it gets stronger until you scratch the itch, if you catch my meaning. I like to watch her writhe a bit beforehand." He strolled to Draco, offering him one of the glasses of Firewhisky. "Have a drink, take that chip off your shoulder, and enjoy yourself." He shoved the tumbler into Draco's hands and smiled, a crooked front tooth glinting in the candlelight, before pushing him down on the couch. Flint laughed and settled into his chair with Penelope.

Draco schooled the irritation from his features and settled next to her.

"Granger," Flint called out. "Your boyfriend's quite the screamer."

She felt her entire body grow cold. Her vision narrowed to Flint's smug smile as he sipped from his glass. She tried to breathe deeply.

"Tell me. Did he scream like that when you used to suck his cock in the Gryffindor common room?"

Rabastan laughed. She blinked, her shelf rattling and groaning.

"Draco, you should have seen him when I told him she was here," Rabastan crowed. "Screaming her name, throwing himself at the bars, trying to Apparate without a wand or magic."

The taste of blood in her mouth. She'd bitten the inside of her cheek. Draco's ribs barely moved next to hers as he took a sip of his Firewhisky and said in an empty voice, "I'd love to see that one day."

She focused on her breathing, pushing through the pain until she could see still water in a large lake. A mountain range surrounding it.

"No wonder he misses her." Rabastan chuckled, shaking his head. "Merlin, I'll never forget that night. Back when we still could serve these." He tapped his Lot's empty glass. "Never seen a girl drop to her knees so quick. Getting fucking hard just thinking about it."

"Well she's a professional, isn't she?" said Flint.

They both laughed. Draco took a sip from his glass.

"You know, Granger, I've always wondered," Flint's voice drifted to her. "Do blow jobs get you wet? Certainly looked like it."

A lake with still waters. A sloping mountain range. Geese floating across the water, creating ripples.

"I wouldn't mind seeing a bit more of her. Now that your father's back, you might need some more privacy, eh, Draco?"

"Come off it, Rabastan. You know he doesn't fuck unless the curtains are drawn around his four-poster. Or his Lot's. Isn't that right?"

Draco shook his head with a wry smile. He tugged at his collar a bit, and sipped his drink.

Hermione looked over at Flint, and found Penelope starting to kiss his neck, pressing her legs together. The other girl appeared dizzy and flushed, sitting several feet away from Rabastan and staring at him longingly.

Hermione let the chatter wash over her, glancing over at Draco to gauge how much longer they would stay.

His face was tight and his cheeks were pink. She leaned into him to whisper, "Should I sit in your lap or—"

The arm around her shoulder disappeared. He sat forward, drawing away from her sharply and placing his hands on his knees. He pressed his eyes closed, like he might be sick.

"Everything alright there, Draco?" Flint lilted.

Draco's eyes flew open to glare at him. In a heartbeat, he was standing and moving to the doors.

"Granger. Come."

Hermione stared after him, stunned.

"Draco, come back! We'll miss the show!"

He wrenched open the door and stormed through. Hermione stood and ran after him, ignoring Flint's protests as Penelope moved to straddle him. Draco whipped around a corner as she stumbled out of the room, and she darted after him.

"What in the world—?" She rounded the corner and found him at the fireplace they'd come through, one hand bracing himself on the wall as he hunched over, heaving. "Are you ill?"

No response, except for the rattle of his breathing. She approached cautiously, reaching for his hand. A soft brush of her fingers over his wrist—

And he jerked backward, his wand clattering to the stone floor. Hermione gaped as it rolled away.

He groaned, sucking in a sharp breath. "We have to— You have to go."

"Draco. What's wrong?" She reached for his face—

"Don't touch me," he panted, pressing himself against the wall. There was horror in his eyes. "You can't touch me."

"Alright." She raised her hands in surrender. "Just let me get a better look." She moved closer, frowning. His pupils were blown wide, his cheeks and neck flushed, his mouth panting with ragged breaths. His gaze dropped from her face, skating over her exposed neck, fixating on the curve of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the swell of her hips.

Hermione felt an iced chill run over her skin, freezing the air in her lungs.

They'd dosed him. Rabastan and Flint. With the lust potion.

This one's a new concoction—

We'll miss the show!

Her mind clicked into action. She flipped through her memories, thinking back on the notes she'd made that day in Draco's laboratory.

But they would need her hair for that potion. A more general lust potion didn't necessarily mean he was dangerous to her—

Draco's hands reached for her, eyes wild and starved, before he jerked them back to his sides. He slapped his hands on the wall behind him, squeezing his eyes shut.

The room spun as she stared at him, dread filling her veins. Somehow, Flint or Rabastan had procured a strand of her hair.

"We can make an antidote," she said, fighting to sound calm.

He let out another moan, and Hermione jerked into action. She ran to the fireplace, searching for the Floo powder.

"We have to get back to the Manor—"

"You need to leave. You go. I can't be with you—"

"Draco." She spun to him, holding out her tattooed forearm. "I cannot go anywhere without you."

A whimper was wrenched from his chest. The heels of his hands pressed into his eyes as he slid down the wall to a crouch.

Hermione spied his wand against a far corner. She darted for it, snatched it up, and turned back to him.

A quivering warmth spun up her arm, sliding into her veins and igniting her soul. Hermione gasped and stared down at her hand, vibrating with the sensation of holding a wand for the first time in months. The hawthorn hummed for her, ready to be useful.

Her heartbeat echoed in her ears.

She could go. She could find Ron. She could fight her way out and run. There were four people to kill — and three Malfoys to Stun. She'd have to take Draco with her for the tattoo to let her leave. Ron must have a tattoo as well. Perhaps if they took Rabastan's body—

A thump drew her eyes up, and she caught sight of Draco on his knees, bracing himself with his hands on the floor, panting.

Her heart thundered even louder, her guilt and conscience tugging her both ways. After another half-second's hesitation, she ran to him. She pushed him up by the shoulders, careful not to touch him, and his eyes fluttered open. His gaze was like black glass.

"Don't—"

"Let's go. Draco, we're going."

She stood swiftly and dragged him up by the collar. He stumbled against the fireplace, tugging to undo his topmost buttons.

"Accio Floo powder," she whispered, and magic sang in her blood as a small ornate jar shot into her hand. She grabbed a handful and turned to him.

He was sweating, his hair damp and his fingers scratching at the buttons of his shirt.

Over-heating. Drowsiness. Dizziness. Obsessive euphoria at skin contact.

And that was the old version.

"You'll"—her voice shook—"you'll need to take my arm. To take us over the boundary."

He laughed, the sound as manic as his aunt's. "That's not an option, Granger."

She wrung her hands. "Or you can summon your father. Conjure a Patronus?" She winced at the glare he sent her. He didn't have one. "I can't send mine. They'd— they'd know about my magic." Her teeth worried her bottom lip, and his eyes watched the movement with a thick hunger. She looked down the dark hallway. "I can go find them and tell them you're sick." Walking wandless through a Death Eater's manor— "Or I can go back to Flint and Rabastan, and demand they—"

He pushed off the mantle of the fireplace, bracing himself as he stood tall. He loomed over her with black, hooded eyes, and she resisted the urge to step backward.

"Stun me as soon as we're through."

She swallowed at the threat in his words. "I know you won't hurt me—"

"Stun me. Is that clear?" He stepped closer to her, and she could feel his breath on her face.

She knew she wouldn't. She couldn't risk leaving him unconscious in this state.

Hermione tossed the Floo powder, stepped into the fire, and the moment his fingers wrapped around her skin, she yelled, "Malfoy Manor!"

The sound of his gasp as their skin connected was audible even in the whoosh of the fire. His arm slipped around her waist in the transport, gripping her close to him. When she stumbled out of the fireplace into the Manor's entryway, he stumbled with her, his face buried in her hair, his arms clinging to her body.

He moaned against her ear, as if the most delicious meal had been served in front of him, and then a hand was sliding down her spine, roaming over her backside, and gripping her close.

She squeaked, grabbing his shoulders to steady herself, and his wand dropped from her fingertips. She whipped her head to watch it knock against the floor just before he grabbed her face and kissed her.

There was nothing hesitant, nothing gentle about it. His tongue was in her mouth and his hand twisting in her hair, as if he needed her like oxygen. She could feel him hard against her stomach, and the hand on her arse was kneading her, filling his palm with her.

Hermione tore her mouth away, trying to breathe. "Draco—"

His lips attached to her neck as she squirmed, trying to put distance between them. "Need you," he groaned. "Please."

"Draco, listen—"

"Please, Granger. Need you, I need—"

Her hands faltered. He screwed his eyes shut, forehead pressed against hers, drawing in ragged breaths. She felt him shaking, trying to reclaim some semblance of control.

And then he surged forward, overwhelming her senses, hands skimming her and mouth devouring her like water in the desert. She parted her lips to reason with him as he broke away, his tongue and teeth following the path down her neck he'd mapped two days prior, but then he found the place beneath her ear that made her vision spot white and her protests vanished. Her fingers curled into his robes, knees buckling.

Draco's hands snapped to her backside, squeezing her, lifting her up, causing her thighs to wrap around him on instinct. Her mind spun to keep up, screaming at her to slow him down, but then her back slammed against a wall and his hips rolled harshly against her core. Her eyes shot open.

"Draco—"

He mumbled broken desires against her neck, hands roaming her thighs and slipping under her thin dress to cup her arse.

"Wanna taste you…" He breathed heavily on her skin, and when his hips pressed into her again, her hands gripped his hair, thighs tightening around him. "Fuck… Wanna fuck you. Want you to come… Wanna feel it on my cock…"

Hermione shuddered at the images, the need, the rawness of it all — and then reality crashed through her foggy consciousness.

"Stop," she gasped.

His body slowed. His lips paused.

"We have to stop," she panted. "You need the antidote."

His forehead dropped against her shoulder, his entire body trembling. She slowly let her legs drop to the floor. He exhaled shakily, and seemed to breathe her in one last time before pushing away from her and stumbling backward. He pushed his hands into his eyes and hunched over, breathing deeply.

She took a cautious step forward, her pulse racing. "We have to act quickly. Do you have any more of the antidote? Or do we need to brew it?"

He was still, apart from the sharp rise and fall of his ribs. "Need to brew it," he wheezed. "Not sure it works on this version."

She nodded, ignoring the cold fear in her chest. "Let's go."

"I need a minute," he growled.

She bit her lip and dug her fingers into her palms, waiting. He breathed into his hands, his ribs expanding slower and slower as he calmed himself. She was about to prod him again when he shot up tall, staring over her, his eyes dark and empty. His jaw was set and his expression dead.

A chill ran down her shoulders as she took in his vacant eyes. "Are you alright?" When he said nothing, simply gazing into the fireplace, she inched closer. "Do you have it under control?"

His head turned, and when his eyes landed on her, they seemed to flash with a black fire before it vanished — like a reptilian blink.

"Perfectly." He reached for his discarded wand with long, elegant fingers. He stared at a point over her ear and said, "Lead the way."

Every step on the stairs down to the laboratory echoed against the stones, making it sound like a dozen people were at Hermione's heels as she rushed down the twisting staircase.

Instead, there was just one. He moved slowly, but every time she paused to look back at him, he was three paces behind her, as if tied to a string. His hand slid across the wall as he moved, his gaze always fixed at a point over her head.

She began running once he descended, following the memorized route to the laboratory and shoving open the door. There was no time to catch her breath as she ran to the shelves, slamming jars onto the lab bench and tearing leaves from potted plants.

Her mind tumbled with the memory of decoding the previous lust potion. She needed Gurdyroot, and Wiggentree Twigs, and — her eyes snapped up to the door. Draco hovered against the frame, every inch of him coiled and tense.

The skin on the back of her neck prickled. "How do you feel, Draco? What are your symptoms?"

He was still, his hands buried in his pockets, his gaze locked on one of the candles on the stone wall. "My symptoms..." he repeated.

Hermione nodded slowly, taking him in. Sweat was beading at his temples — she could see the perspiration on his black collared shirt. And although his eyes were still vacant, she didn't miss the clench in his jaw.

Silence.

"Alright. I'll just get started, then." Squaring her shoulders, she stepped up to the cauldron, facing her first problem. She needed to light the fire—

There was a shuffle forward before she could ask. She kept her eyes fixed on the cauldron as his long, pale fingers placed his wand delicately on the counter. A sharp intake of breath — and then he moved away, stepping back to the doorframe.

"Thanks," she mumbled. The magic in his wand thrummed in her veins as she quickly lit the fire, filled the cauldron, and charmed the elm spoon to stir clockwise. She set to work, summoning tools and ingredients, inspecting the color and texture as the mixture bubbled. After a few minutes, she glanced up to find him watching her, his eyes dark and glassy.

"Draco"—she cleared her throat—"I need to know what's different about this potion. What's it doing to you?"

She began chopping the Wiggentree Twigs to avoid holding his eye.

"Overheating, dizziness…" He trailed off.

She darted a glance through her lashes and found him staring at her lips. She'd been biting them.

"And arousal, obviously," she muttered, tossing in the Wiggentree Twigs. "Intense arousal, as it's been exacerbated by skin contact."

"It's…"

She looked up when he didn't finish. "Yes?"

He shifted, leaning heavily on the doorframe. "It's getting worse the longer it goes on." His eyes dragged over her body before closing tightly. "I didn't see that with the other potions. Before."

Hermione jerked a nod and cast her eyes down on the potions ingredients in front of her. She needed twenty minutes to cobble together an antidote. And she could only hope that it worked properly. The Bulbadox juice and daisy roots were her best guesses to counteract the increasing intensity, but she couldn't be sure without a sample.

There was nothing to be done for it. She just had to hope for the best.

She flicked his wand and conjured a chair near the doorway. "Take a seat."

The cauldron simmered into a bubblegum pink. She ran through the ingredients in her head, trying to account for the color.

"When you made this for Pansy, did you stir clockwise eleven times? Or thirteen times counterclockwise?"

The texture evened out. The color shifted into a pale baby pink. So close now. She picked up the Gurdyroot.

"You can't use that."

Her head snapped up. The doorframe was supporting him now, his back flush against it, and his knees weak underneath him. His eyes were squeezed closed.

"What?"

"The Gurdyroot will counteract the Ashwinder shells, negating—negating the effects." He took a shuddering breath. "You need to use willow bark."

Her heart thrashed in her chest until her ribs hurt. Willow bark had to be added at room temperature, and its effects only released properly if it was slowly, gradually brought to a boil. Another fifteen minutes, at least. Steeling herself, she banished the flames, summoned the willow bark, and began cracking it into fingernail-sized pieces.

"I'm sorry," she said numbly. "I should have started with the bark. It's going to be a bit longer. You—you should sit."

She chanced a look up at him as he stiffly lowered himself into the chair she'd conjured. He was clammy and flushed, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple. Unable to either look at him or stand still, she began clearing up her station, darting around the room and putting things away by hand.

Five excruciating minutes later, the potion was cool enough. She sprinkled the willow bark into the cauldron and lit the flames, chewing the inside of her cheek while she waited.

He was quiet and still for the next ten minutes while Hermione worked, adjusting the temperature as she peered into the cauldron. If she hadn't seen his chest rising and falling out of the corner of her eye, she would have assumed he was catatonic.

"How are you feeling?" No response. She wiped her brow, then waved away the smoke. "I can brew you something for concentration—"

"Stop talking," he bit out. Her eyes darted to him. He stared at her darkly, sweat dripping from his temples. "Your voice—"

He tore his gaze from her. She nodded, pointedly ignoring the way he adjusted himself in his trousers. She continued easing the castor oil into the cauldron, one teaspoon every ten stirs.

"Stop biting your lip," his voice snarled.

She jumped. "Sorry. I didn't realize…"

He dropped his head into his hands and groaned. "How much longer?"

"Not long."

He stumbled out of the chair, standing to press his back against the cool stones. He tugged at his shirt, fanning himself with the material, and his eyes slid over to her again.

Her heartbeat fluttered as she blinked away, doubling her efforts. She could feel him staring at her hands as she worked, making her fingers shake and the knife slippery in her grip.

The cauldron bubbled into a deep blue as soon as she added the crushed daisy roots, the consistency exactly right. She just needed to wait five more minutes for it to simmer.

"You should Stun me."

Her eyes jerked up to see him closer to the table, still pressed against the wall. His gaze was on her neck and chest.

She swallowed, her throat thick. "Just a little bit longer."

"Stun me."

She focused back on the potion, wiping her brow again, trying to ignore the way his eyes slid over her. "I don't think you should be unconscious in this state. Putting you into a stasis could—"

"Then bind me," he growled.

Hermione shivered. "Maybe four minutes—" Her voice caught when she turned to address him again. He'd gotten even closer.

His expression darkened when their eyes met, and a slow, catlike grin spread across his lips. He took a step closer to her, almost at the table, and Hermione's eyes darted to his wand — now closer to his reach than hers.

"Maybe you want me to lose control." He tilted his head at her. "Maybe the little lioness wants to be hunted down, chased through the Manor."

She stood frozen, unable to tear away from his obsidian eyes as he leaned forward on his palms, shoulders curling like a predator. She willed her heart to slow its pounding.

"You certainly like to tease." The black fire in his eyes bloomed, expanding and collapsing like a supernova. "Do you want me to break, Granger?" He smirked, the curve of his mouth cold and cutting. "I think it's my turn to play."

"Draco—"

"Go on. Run. I'll give you a head start."

She didn't move a muscle, even as her impulses screamed to do exactly what he'd told her and run. She gave up no ground as he leaned closer, her blood pounding so frantically she could hear it rushing in her ears. Taking a deep breath and lifting her chin, she looked into his eyes.

"This isn't you. I know who you are, Draco." His eyes flickered, the black fire wavering. "Look at me."

A held breath — and the fire vanished. Draco flinched violently, like she'd slapped him. A gasping breath crashed into his lungs, and he stumbled backward until his back slammed into the stone. His eyes were wide and horrified before he covered them with his hands, sinking to the ground and curling in on himself.

"It's okay," she said, her voice shaky. "You're okay. Three minutes. Count in your head."

She snatched his wand and set a timer on it, her fingers clutching the handle tightly as she slowly backed to her side of the table.

Draco breathed harshly, eyes still closed, his breath rattling on the exhale. He was shivering, his face ashen, and his collar drenched with sweat. After a second of debate, Hermione inched closer and cast a quick diagnostic over him. Orange and maroon throughout his chest, but a disturbing deep green across his hips and thighs. Bright spots of red fired through his brain. Pomfrey would have already sent him to St. Mungo's based on his temperature and hydration levels.

She checked the timer on the wand, trying to focus amidst the panic in her chest. Two more minutes.

The potion was thickening like it should. The color dissolving from midnight blue to sky blue, which would then move to a clear—

A vicious thump sounded from her right, and she spun to find Draco crumpled on the floor.

Her legs raced to him before she could remember—

She stumbled back, filled a vial with the antidote, and ran to him, praying it was ready.

His eyes were fluttering under their lids, his fingers twitching. She grabbed a handful of fabric from her dress and used it as a barrier between their skin as she pried open his jaw and poured the potion into his mouth.

He coughed. It sprayed up and onto her face.

She screamed for another vial, and the magic shot through her fingers. A second later, a full vial was in her hand.

He was shaking, his eyes rolling back in his head.

"Draco!" She kneeled on his chest to keep him still, grabbed his jaw, and poured the potion into his mouth, covering his lips with her palm to force him to swallow. She watched his throat bob, his body shuddering beneath her.

She looked up at the diagnostic spell still hovering overhead. His temperature was dropping rapidly, returning to normal. She hadn't expected the potion to work so quickly—

A moan from below her. And she looked down just as Draco covered his hand with hers and held her skin to his lips, kissing and sucking at her wrist. His other was on her knee, sliding up, up, up.

Relief washed over her as she checked the scan, her arm yielding to his demanding mouth. The dark green had replaced the angry orange and red. But she couldn't tell if this was the antidote working or the contact with her skin—

"Hermione."

Her eyes snapped down to him. He was kissing her arm, murmuring her given name against her skin. Her jaw went slack with the sound of the syllables from his lips. He was under the thrall of the lust potion now.

The hand crawling under her dress reached her hip, and he tugged her to straddle him. He was still hard, twitching under her, his tongue laving against her wrist.

She blinked, forcing herself to stay clinical as he groaned her name again. It was soft and needy. Nothing like the desperation at the fireplaces. If she could keep him sated with this, maybe it would give enough time for the antidote to begin working.

If it would ever begin working.

He pulled on her wrist. Her torso fell forward onto his with a squeak from her throat, and his lips were on hers before she could draw breath.

"I need you," he moaned, when he finally broke away.

She looked into his eyes. Not feverish anymore, but still wild. "I'm here," she whispered.

Something flickered behind the grey, and he kissed her — slow and deep, his arms wrapping around her waist, one hand pushing her hips into his. He ground up against her, pressing himself against her core. Her eyelids fluttered closed, surrendering as he dragged her dress up her back, his hands roaming her skin. He needed this, she told herself, as his tongue tangled with hers, as his fingers found the clasp of her bra and opened it with a quick twist—

Hermione's eyes shot open, coming back into her body. She tried to sit up, to redirect his hands, but he was gripping her so tightly that the movement only ground her hips onto him.

"Oh fuck." His head rolled back, his jaw hanging lax. "Just like that."

She tried to reign in her breathing as she shifted again, trying to move her hips away. His hands snapped down to her waist, sliding around to her mostly bare backside and kneading the skin. Her breath hitched, and she flushed, embarrassed at the fire spreading through her.

She finally managed to sit up, pulling his hands from her hips as he started to thrust up against her. But he merely followed her, sliding her into his lap and holding her hips as his lips kissed her clavicles.

She shivered and tilted her head back, looking up at his diagnostic scan. The dark green had faded. A natural, earthy green like leaves in the autumn covered his entire body.

He was nuzzling against her breasts, kissing them through her dress. His hands were stroking her hips, teasing circles into her backside with his long fingers.

She threaded her hands in his hair and tugged his head back to look into his eyes.

Dark like slate. But she could see his irises.

"How do you feel?"

The hands on her hips froze.

His eyes blinked. Clearing into a cool grey.

A gasping breath, and he was tearing away from her.

"Draco—"

He slid out from under her, crawling away, panting and heaving. Hermione scrambled up, quickly clasping her bra and straightening her dress.

She turned back in time to see him vomiting onto the stones, his hand braced on the wall. She started toward him, then froze.

Reaching for his wand, she banished the sick without looking.

"You did so well, Draco." She bit her lip. "It was… I don't blame you for any of this—"

He retched again. Hermione turned to stare at the cauldron, her hand pressing into her trembling lips as she listened to him heave.

She banished the mess again, and before she could say anything, he called out, "Mippy!"

The elf popped into the laboratory. "Master Draco!"

"Take Granger to her room."

She blinked at his back. He still leaned against the wall, facing away from her.

Mippy tottered over to her, and Hermione drew back her hand. "No. Mippy. Take Master Draco to his room. He is unwell. He needs fluids and a quarter vial of this potion once he can keep anything down—"

"I'm fine, Mippy. I need her out of here."

"Well, I can walk on my own! Which is more than I can say for him!"

Mippy's green eyes bounced between the two of them like tennis balls. "Mippy is not knowing—"

"Get her to her room—"

"Look at his diagnostic scan, Mippy. He's dehydrated and recovering from a dangerous fever—"

"Mippy thinks maybe we all go upstairs?" the elf squeaked.

The door banged open, and Narcissa Malfoy flew into the room. "There you are." She quickly halted, taking in the scene. "What happened?"

"Draco is ill! He needs fluids and rest—"

"I need her out of here. I need to be away from her right now—"

"Mippy was called, Mippy waits for missus to tell her what to—"

"Look!" Hermione gestured to the diagnostic. "He was poisoned, and we managed to get him an antidote just in time." She took a rattling breath. "He Occluded himself into a coma, and his fever was life-threatening a few minutes ago. He needs rest and monitoring and he needs to listen to me."

She looked wildly between Narcissa and Draco.

"Mother—"

"Hush." Narcissa was pale, staring down at Hermione's hand.

Hermione looked down. Draco's wand was still in her hand. The hawthorn humming.

"Did anyone see you used a wand this evening, Hermione?"

She shook her head. "No. He dropped it, and I helped him through the Floo—"

"The same fireplace we arrived in?" asked Narcissa.

"Yes, but…" Hermione's eyes widened, and her hand slapped over her mouth. "The portraits," she whispered. "In the entry hall. I summoned the Floo powder in front of them."

Hermione quickly dropped the wand on the table, her heart pounding wildly again. How could she have been so foolish?

"Don't fret, Hermione," said Narcissa quickly. "Rabastan and Marcus are preoccupied. I encountered them when I was looking for you two." She looked nauseous at the memory.

"But Bellatrix—"

"Gone as well. Lucius left to speak with the Dark Lord, and my sister and her husband insisted on accompanying him." A shadow of fury passed over her face.

Draco took an unsteady step forward. "Mother, what—"

"Mippy," said Narcissa, her voice deadly calm, "take Draco upstairs. Check his vitals and begin any necessary treatment. I'll be there shortly."

Mippy dropped the ear she was twirling and quickly tottered over to grab Draco's wrist. His eyes caught Hermione's just as they vanished, and the anguish in them hit her like a blow to the gut.

Narcissa moved quickly to the cauldron, grabbing a vial.

"What was he poisoned with?"

Hermione dragged in air, steadying herself. "A lust potion."

Narcissa's eyes flickered back to her, scanning over her rumpled dress, skating up to her wild hair.

"I'm fine," Hermione managed. "Really."

Narcissa pressed her lips together and filled a vial. "Who?"

"Rabastan and Flint. They drugged his drink."

Narcissa capped the vial, and Hermione saw her fingers shake only once. She swept from the room, and Hermione followed, rattling instructions as she strained to keep up.

"He should be monitored for at least twenty-four hours," Hermione wheezed as they strode through the entrance hall. "Flint said this was a new batch, something stronger. I believe the antidote worked, but there might be complications from prolonged exposure. He had a fever of almost thirty-nine degrees, and his hydration levels were dangerously low."

Apart from an occasional nod or hum of understanding, Narcissa was silent. Once they reached Draco's bedroom door, she spun to her.

"Hermione, thank you. For everything." She placed a hand on Hermione's elbow. "I know you've been through a lot this evening."

Hermione opened her mouth to say that she was fine, that she was only concerned for Draco—

"Please don't visit him tonight." Her voice was gentle, but firm. "I don't think he can bear it."

Hermione blinked at Narcissa, then at the floor. Her eyes slid to his door, her throat thick and vision blurring. She took a breath, and nodded.

Narcissa took her hands. "And we will keep this between the three of us." She glanced down the hall, as if her husband could appear at any moment. "Lucius needs to focus on keeping Draco out of Switzerland, and not murdering Rabastan Lestrange." Narcissa's lips tightened. "Keep this between us. And leave the portraits to me."

Hermione nodded again, her eyes wide. With a final squeeze of her hands, Narcissa rushed into Draco's room, closing the door behind her. Hermione stared at the emerald eye for several long moments before slowly turning and trudging back to her room. As she kicked off her shoes, she caught sight of herself in her long mirror. Her hair was mussed, her lips bee-stung. She slipped off her dress, and found a lovebite just above her breast. Her cheeks flushed.

She ran her hands over her face, trying to force the tension of the evening to melt from her skin. All things considered, the night had been a success. Not the least of which was saving Draco from doing something he never would have wanted to.

Sighing, she began collecting her dirty clothes. She'd also survived dinner with the Lestranges. Her Occlumency had worked. Bellatrix had seen only what she wanted her to see, and she hadn't cracked when—

Her hands seized, her shoes tumbling to the carpets. The memory of a scream rising up from below her feet, rattling her, cutting through her mind, slicing her insides. Ron was still there. She sank to her knees, breathing deeply until she managed to slam him back inside his book. When the shelves in her mind were finally still, Hermione crossed to her bathroom, turned on the taps, and sank into a warm bath until her muscles relaxed and her mind was empty.

~*~

The next morning, Hermione was in the library, burying herself in research to keep from fixating on the fact that Draco was not at home.

She'd tried his door when she woke up, but he hadn't answered. The elves had told her he was out, and so was Narcissa. Lucius still hadn't returned from the previous evening.

Hermione had spent half an hour panicking about their absence, and Draco's health, until her guilt found her. Then she'd trudged down to the library, reviewing all the reasons it would have been foolish to try to rescue Ron last night.

Fifteen minutes of meditation later, and she was ready. In a firm voice, she asked the catalog to pull down all the books on Scourers. After some debate, she'd decided to keep them in the library, or else she ran the risk of someone finding out what she was researching.

One of the Scourers, Jeremiah Jones, had written his entire journal in that code she'd found scattered in other journals, amidst torn-out pages. They appeared to be like a cross between runes or hieroglyphics, but the sheer variety of characters was like nothing Hermione had seen before. She'd set Jeremiah Jones's journal aside weeks ago, focusing on the other journals instead, as they at least contained entries in English. But she'd carefully combed through the last of them, and was still no wiser about the magic leading to the tattoos.

So she reopened Jones's journal and studied the strange shapes and lines. Her fingers traced the remnants of a chunk of torn-out pages at the center of its spine, feeling the loss in her bones. It was like trying to translate Russian to English using a dictionary written in Mandarin. If only she could crack the cipher, she could translate the fragments of code in the Scourers' journals. And something told her that this journal was key.

She was so deeply entrenched in her study of the strange runes that she didn't hear the library doors open. A throat cleared near her table and she jolted, nearly upending her inkpot over the centuries-old texts.

Draco stood several feet away, his hands behind his back. She jumped up from her chair to meet him, fingers curling into fists to keep from reaching out.

"How—how are you?"

He was pale, his eyes rimmed with dark circles and his jaw tight.

"Marcus Flint won't be bothering us again."

She felt a chill crest over her skin. "Why? What happened?"

He rolled his shoulders, and she listened to his bones pop.

"He enjoys being alive." He took a deep breath, looking at a point over her ear. "I told him the next time he so much looks at me the wrong way, I'll go straight to the Dark Lord and inform him that he and Rabastan are still dealing the potion at Edinburgh."

Hermione gasped. "They've—?"

"Yes. Since the beginning. The idiot thought I didn't know. Then he tried to insist I wouldn't betray my uncle's brother." He sneered. "He is banned from Edinburgh for the next month."

"Banned? On whose orders?"

Draco looked at her, his eyes a deep, swirling grey. "Mine. Marcus has forgotten his place since the fall of Potter. I'll endeavor to remind him of it."

He stood tall, arrogant and cold. It reminded her of Hogwarts.

She shook away her memories and wrung her hands together. "I take it your temperature is normal this morning? Did you run any diagnostics?"

The look he gave her told her that asking about his health was futile.

His eye twitched, and he took a deep breath. "We need to end our 'practicing.'"

She heard her heartbeat in the silence. She'd suspected things would go this way.

"I understand how you feel," she said slowly, "but I don't think returning to stiffness and visible discomfort is a good idea."

"The practice sessions are a distraction. For both of us." He cleared his throat. "I let my guard down around Marcus last night. I could have seriously harmed you—"

"Last night wasn't your fault," she rushed out, stepping closer to him. "You did everything within your power—"

"Granger—"

"—and you stopped yourself! You had remarkable control over your mind, despite what it cost you, and—and I just want you to know that you don't have to avoid me, or stop the progress that we made, because I trust you, Draco. I truly do. And even if—"

"Granger." She paused her frantic pacing and met his eyes. He said quietly, voice raw with exhaustion, "This is me tugging my ear."

She blinked at him. Tug your ear, or something. If he felt uncomfortable, or if she was asking too much. And she'd promised she would stop.

"I see." She turned her gaze on her shoes, feeling her ribs contract in towards her heart. "No, of course. That's your right." Her eyes slid up to him again. "But you should know that I'm not tugging mine. My ear, that is."

He swallowed, and his jaw tightened. His eyes drifted over her jaw and lips before dragging away. Nodding at her in goodbye, he turned on his heel.

Her stomach twisted. If he left… if he walked away now, free to avoid her and wallow in self-loathing, she'd have to work twice as hard to win him back. And a partnership with him was what the Order needed.

It just happened to be what her heart wanted as well.

"Was your father successful?" she called out. "In speaking with Voldemort about Switzerland?"

He froze, then turned slowly, looking her over. Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair. "For now. Mother received an owl this morning. Father has convinced him that politics shouldn't be the top priority, given the current state of the country."

She nodded, something knotted unraveling inside of her chest. "And where is he now?"

"Working on a new strategy for the Dark Lord's approval." He hesitated. "My aunt's not happy. Mother has gone to stay with her for a few days."

"What?" Hermione blurted out. "Why?"

Draco shrugged. "To keep her distracted."

"I see."

He glanced at the door, and she knew she had a handful of seconds before he disappeared.

"Wait—" She moved back to the table, shuffling papers and organizing books. "I'm looking into something that I would love a bit of help with. It's… a lot of work, and I could use a—a partner."

She looked up to him again, and his eyes flashed. There was a thick silence.

"If you're not too busy," she whispered, the words floating across the distance to him.

He stared at the books, tilting his head to read a sideways title. Close enough to show interest, but too far to be hooked. She counted her heartbeats in the moments that followed, the brutal silence overwhelming. If he walked away—

"What are you working on?"

A breeze of relief swept through her veins. She smiled nervously at him and began to explain the Scourers. Slow enough to not overwhelm him, but quick enough to keep his interest. Her chest pounded faster as he moved toward the table, listening intently. She inched forward as well, still rattling facts and history.

"And when did you first learn about them?" he suddenly asked, turning to look at her.

"Um— the night with the Spanish Minister." He frowned at her, watching her lips form the words. "Nott Sr. mentioned them."

His eyes dropped to the ink on her arm before he turned again, stepping resolutely up to the table. He picked up the closest book, flipping through a few pages.

"So you are researching how to escape. And you want my assistance with that." He let the spine snap closed, tucked his hand in his pocket, and turned to look at her coolly.

Her brows knitted together, and she swallowed. "How to get around the boundary lines, yes, but—"

"What do you think happens to me if my Lot runs away? To my parents?" He leaned back on the table, feet crossed at the ankles.

Her jaw clicked closed. "It's not just me, Draco. I'm working to free all of us. This is so much bigger than any one person—"

"So you're going to take off — without a wand — and meet up with 'the gang,' wherever they are — to attempt to destroy the most powerful wizard of our time, succeeding where Harry Potter failed." He crossed his arms over his chest. "And you'd like my help in opening your shackles. Me. A Death Eater."

She glowered at him. "I know your family hates Voldemort."

He stared at her lazily. "Dislike doesn't mean we're willing to get ourselves killed in a pointless attempt to overthrow him."

"The point is," she said calmly, as if she hadn't heard him, "I know why I'm here, Draco."

His ribs ceased moving, his eyes locked on hers.

She took a deep, steadying breath. "I'm well aware that I'm... insurance for the Malfoy family. A bargaining chip, if you will." She lifted her chin. "I don't hold it against you. It was a clever decision, and you've treated me far better than I could have ever imagined. But don't act like it's foolish to try to defeat Voldemort when it's a possibility that you and your family prepared for."

He blinked, searching her face. His eyes slowly narrowed. "I suppose you have it all figured out, then."

She ignored the bait. "Of course I can't say when it will happen. But this regime isn't going to last. Nothing like it ever has in history." She took a cautious step forward. "I know why you've protected me. Why you've helped me. And although I'll tell anyone who will listen, I can't promise it will be enough."

He simply stared at her, his lips slightly parted.

"It may not be good enough in the eyes of a war tribunal." She took a shuddering breath. "But help me do this, and when Voldemort falls and the Order triumphs, I'll make sure they know you and your parents were the reason why."

A pause. Then he snapped to his full height. "How magnanimous of you, Granger," he sneered. "Now if you'll excuse me—"

"Please." She bit her lip, holding his gaze. "I'm asking you to help me."

The air between them crackled. She refused to back down even as she flushed, embarrassed from his intense gaze. The silence stretched as she waited, hoping, praying—

And he abruptly turned back to the table. Flipping open the nearest book with a lazy gesture, he cleared his throat. "What's the problem, then?"

Her heart leaped. She blinked at the floor, fighting the urge to cry, or laugh, or both. Slowly, she came to stand at the table next to him, reaching for Jones's journal. "We should start here."

Several hours later, she was watching him read an old journal with a quill bit between his lips, his eyes scrunched in disdain. The elves had brought the tea service with a fresh pot of coffee for her, and she was nibbling on a biscuit as she watched him read.

She was working on listing every character of the foreign alphabet, writing them out on her scroll as she happened upon them. She was up to twenty-nine. When Mippy came to force Draco to eat dinner, Hermione agreed readily, insisting he stop for the evening.

"I'll… I'll be here tomorrow as well," she said, turning over her shoulder as she paused in the library doorway. "If you'd like to keep working with me."

His throat bobbed, and he looked away. "Possibly. I'll have to see."

She nodded and retired to her room, spending the rest of her night Occluding and saying thanks for Draco's assistance while it had lasted.

The next morning, she was just settling into a Scourer journal when the library doors burst open. Draco flew in, his hair still wet from a shower.

Her mouth fell open.

"I was thinking this morning," he said, pacing back and forth as she tried not to stare. "What if it's not a Germanic root? What if it's Arabic?" He disappeared into the stacks as she blinked after him, before returning with a book of Arabic runes.

It turned out that Draco was partially right. Some of the characters matched those of ancient Arabic runes, but others were distinct. They'd also identified matches with ancient Egyptian, Sumerian, Sanskrit, and Aramaic runes.

They continued much like this for the next several days. With Lucius and Narcissa gone, there was nothing to interrupt them. Hermione didn't know what part of her argument had convinced him to help her, but she didn't dare question it, too content to have his company and help.

She learned that they worked well together, just as she'd expected. It was nothing like working on a project with Ron and Harry. No need to nag him or cross-check his work. Draco was usually at his brightest in the mornings, so he would scribble furious notes until noon, letting his tea go cold while he devoured the textbooks and journals. Hermione hit her stride in the afternoons just as he settled into a chair and flipped idly, staring off and thinking.

More often than not, she would look up to him with an idea or a question, and find that he would already be watching her — staring at her finger trailing over a page, gazing at her mouth as she sucked on the end of a quill, watching as she stood and stretched. That was another difference from her other study partners. How attentive he was.

She ran over to him one afternoon when she thought she'd narrowed one of the symbols down to a Sumerian rune for captivity. Her hair fell over his shoulder as she leaned over him, pointing to the rune to compare.

Draco stood and moved away under the guise of reaching for other books, and she realized with a wave of embarrassment that her breasts had been brushing his shoulder, her arm pressed against his. His cheeks were spotted pink when he came back to her, and she suspected hers with the same.

She was tucked into the couch on Thursday evening, flipping through a text on ancient Latin, looking for any symbols in the pages that looked like the ones in Jeremiah Jones's journal. About a quarter through, she found a match. She sighed, rubbing her temples. It seemed the Scourers had borrowed from every ancient language of runes in existence. They'd already identified over a thousand unique characters. At this rate, it might take years to decipher.

She bit back her disappointment as she dutifully pulled out her parchment, making a note about the translation. It would be so much easier if they had a shortcut. A key of some sort. She let her mind wander to Nott Sr. again.

She cleared her throat, the sound echoing in the silent room. Despite spending the last five days together, they'd hardly spoken. "Are you close with Theodore? It's hard to tell how much of the teasing is real."

His eyes slid to her from over the journal he was reading. "Not really."

"You used to be close, yes?"

He snapped the book closed, pressing his lips in a thin line. "What are you getting at?"

She bit her lip and shook her head. "Nothing. Just… wondering about the Initiation tomorrow evening."

She looked down at her notes again, feeling Draco's hot eyes on her. Now was not the time.

~*~

He didn't come to the library on Friday. He'd told her as they were turning in the night before that he would need to prepare for the Initiation.

"What does it entail?" she'd asked, her hand on her door knob as he hovered in the hallway.

His jaw had clenched. And he'd told her in sparse detail about a ceremony that all the Dark Lord's servants attended. There was typically a party afterward, followed by hours of debauchery and destruction.

She spent all day Friday writing out the code, burying herself in work to forget. She and Draco had now translated fifty-four unique characters within Jeremiah Jones's journal. Still at least a thousand to go.

When the clock chimed ten, Hermione returned to her room and dragged her armchair over to the window so she could watch for Draco's bedroom light. Something tugged deep in her conscience, but she brushed it aside. His help was invaluable, and she needed him to be safe. She stayed up until three in the morning, nodding off here and there before giving up her watch, and tucking herself into bed.

She woke up the next day well after noon. Her body was sore from her futile armchair vigil, and she took a hot shower before changing into some comfortable clothes. Her breakfast tray was sitting on her coffee table, magically still steaming. She plopped down into her chair and poured her coffee.

She was halfway through munching on her piece of toast when she noticed a thick pamphlet poking out from under the tray. Hermione frowned and pulled it free.

Unspeakable: The Hall of Prophecies
Book One
by Lance Gainsworth

She stood, gaping at the words. Her fingers drifted through the pages, flipping through what seemed to be a manuscript. It was coverless, simply bound with a Sticking Charm.

Turning over the first page, she gasped. Written in a messy blue ink on the second page, she found a dedication.

Miss Granger,

Thank you for your support of my previous series,  Undesirable . This, my first draft of book one in my new series, will be published next summer, as long as there's no change in the wind.

The world changes, the light grows dim, but stories and characters are always there to help illuminate the way.

Keep fighting,
Lance Gainsworth

Her fingertips squeezed the pages, itching to flip through. To devour the story and make sure she wasn't imagining the book in her hands. Her mind swam with questions.

Sucking in a sharp breath, she spun and raced for the door. Running the few paces to Draco's room, she banged on the door, pounding bruises into her fist. No response.

She darted for the stairs, flying down to the library. Throwing the doors open, she found him standing over the long table, leaning onto his fists and staring down at one of the many books lying in a heap.

"Morning," he offered, before she could open her mouth. "One of these runes appears on the cover of Tolbrette's journal. Did you notice that yet?"

She clutched the manuscript between her fingers, breathing hard, and opening and closing her mouth.

"There's coffee there," he said, gesturing flippantly to the side table between the couches. "I wasn't sure if you wanted to work today or not, so I told the elves to hold the extra scones. We can call them—"

"What is this?" she interrupted. She held the Gainsworth manuscript out, shaking it at him like it had bitten her.

He looked up at her for the first time. His gaze traced her body before landing on the pages in her hand. Scratching his jaw absently, he turned to the shelves behind him, searching through the books there with deliberation. She couldn't be sure what was fascinating him so much, as Hermione knew that section to contain information on the dung beetle.

"Nothing, really."

She blinked at him, watching the back of his neck turn pink. She moved to the table and slapped the manuscript down. "It's… It's an unpublished draft. It's not nothing. How did you get it? Why is it… How did you—"

He interrupted her stammering with a shrug, still facing the dung beetle books with rapt interest. "I wrote to Gainsworth. Told him you were a fan."

Hermione moved toward him, begging him to face her. "But why would he—"

Draco turned away, his cheeks spotted pink, and his eyes cast down on a book about dung beetle reproductive behaviors that he took over to their Scourer research table.

"I just… I told him you were a fan. Asked if he had anything he could sign and send for Hermione Granger's birthday."

He flipped through a few texts as she stared at him, her lips parting slowly.

She hadn't read the paper in days. Rationally, she knew it was September, and that her birthday was coming up. Today was her birthday. She had forgotten it. But Draco hadn't.

"I did nothing," he was mumbling. "Just wrote a letter really. You can borrow my owl if you'd like to send a thank you—"

Hermione reached for his shoulders, turned him to her, and rose up on her toes to press her lips to his.

He'd remembered her birthday. He'd known her birthday in the first place.

Her fingers stretched to tangle in the hair behind his ears, her lips moving carefully over his, begging him to let her continue, to express her thanks, to express her affection—

His lips pulled away. His hands landed lightly on her hips, shifting her back. His eyes hot and dark and searching.

She winced, remembering how he needed space, how he needed time.

"I'm sorry." She pressed her eyes closed. "I'm sorry, I know you don't want to, but I—"

His mouth found hers again, harder, softer. She gasped, and his tongue was in her mouth quickly, searching and dancing and dragging surprised sighs from her lungs.

The hands on her hips squeezed her close, fingertips digging into her sides and pressing her to his front.

Her arms wrapped around his neck, pressing her chest close to his and clinging to him as his breath turned heavy against her mouth.

One hand slipped down, rubbing lightly over her backside. He moaned against her lips and she gasped, eyes blinking quickly to stare up at his dark gaze.

"I'm sorry," she repeated. "We don't have to. I don't want to push you—"

"Stop talking, Granger."

He spun them, lifting her swiftly from her ribs and setting her on the edge of the table. She squeaked, and he swallowed the sound, wrapping his arms around her back and curving his spine to lean down to kiss her.

Her hands slid through his hair, threading her fingers and clutching his face close. His tongue slipped into her mouth, probing and tangling with hers. When she couldn't breathe any longer, she pulled away, gasping for air, and he switched to her neck faster than she could offer it to him.

One of his hands slid down her ribs, tracing her hip and skating down her thigh. He gave a soft push to her knee, and she immediately obeyed, opening her legs and inviting him to step closer. His teeth scraped over her neck, and she squeezed her eyes closed with the sharp sting of pleasure that crashed through her. His tongue laved over the spot, and she quivered, arms shaking and core throbbing.

His arm slipped lower around her back, dragging her forward to the edge of the table and connecting their hips. She sighed and pulled his head back to her mouth. He obliged, moving his lips over hers and dragging her under in a current of ecstasy. She realized her breath was leaving her throat in a heady pattern of moaning sighs.

"Thank you," she murmured against his lips. "Thank you. I love it."

He squeezed her closer, breathing harshly in her ear. His hand moved to the back of her head, fingers twisting in her hair, and then he was tugging, pulling her neck open to him. His lips crashed against her throat, sucking and biting before they slid down, sucking on her collarbones.

One of his hands slithered over her shirt, rising up higher and higher until his palm covered her breast. Her thighs tightened around his waist, and her back arched, pressing her chest into his hand. His teeth nipped her clavicle as she moaned. His thumb passed over her nipple, and she felt her whole body respond.

A pop! from behind them made her jolt. And a high-pitched, bored voice said, "Miss wants scones?"

Hermione slapped a hand over her mouth. Draco froze, his hand still on her breast and his lips hovering above her chest.

They tilted their heads to find Remmy glaring at them.

Hermione's thoughts were empty except for mortification.

"No," Draco said, point-blank.

Remmy pouted her little lips together, narrowed her eyes, and said, "Remmy maybe brings scones. For later."

"That won't be—"

Remmy disappeared with a crack!

Hermione could breathe again, and let out a high-pitched, nervous laugh. But Draco didn't join in. He pulled himself back, still panting, his pupils black and intent. Her stomach barely had a moment to flutter before he grabbed her wrist and dragged her to her feet to follow him. He tugged her up to the landing, twisting between the stacks and weaving them to a small alcove with a window seat overlooking the pond. She had half a second to enjoy the view before he pressed her against the shelves and devoured her again.

He muffled her squeak of surprise, his fingers on her waist and his body flush against hers. She grabbed his elbows as he kissed her slowly, deep and seductive kisses that spun her mind in circles. The hands at her waist were under her shirt, rubbing her sides and chastely brushing thumbs over her hipbones. She ran her hands down his elbows, over his wrists, and to his hands, giving him permission to touch more of her.

His knee pressed forward, slipping between her thighs. And the most embarrassing moan poured from her throat into his mouth. Before she could pull away, he angled her head back and kissed her like she was the answer to his thirst.

His thigh connected to her core just as his hand reached her bra. Her hips rolled forward and he groaned, pressing his hardening length against her hip. His fingers tightened in her hair, and his thumb rolled her nipple, squeezing her and flicking at her and slipping the lace down so he could feel her—

A pop! from right next to them. Hermione jerked.

"Remmy brought the scones."

Draco's body — which had been deliciously pliant against her — tensed. A frustrated sigh blew across her face.

"I told you we didn't want any."

"Remmy insists. Remmy brings anything else?"

"No."

There was a pause. Hermione turned her face to the right, seeing the round, older elf standing there with her hands on her hips.

"Remmy asks again later." And she disappeared.

Hermione stared at the spot Remmy had stood until Draco's fingers curled against her skin. She jumped, pulling back, her mind crashing back into its skull.

"Your mother has her spies out. We should… we shouldn't be…" she stammered.

"My father's spies, more like it."

Draco looked down on her. His eyes were bright — an excited grey instead of the possessed black pupils from the incident last week — and they roved over her features, skating across her jaw, curving across her cheeks, dancing with her own eyes.

"I— I mean to say, I'm glad that we…" She gestured helplessly to their bodies, currently pressed up against each other. "But maybe we shouldn't… That's not to say, 'not ever,' but—"

Draco smiled. And the sight of it took her breath away. He pulled his lip between his teeth, and she felt his fingers shift on her waist. He leaned into her ear and whispered, "Stop your babbling, Granger."

He left a kiss there that made her eyes flutter, just before stepping back.

"Don't you have a book to read?"

Her eyelids shot open to find him smirking at her. "I shouldn't," she muttered. "We have research to do…"

He gave a lazy shrug. "Did you read the title?"

Her eyes widened, and her fingers itched. "I did."

"Hmm."

She cleared her throat. "Do you think it will be anything like the Undesirable series? Did he say if there would be seven books again?" She pulled away from the shelves and moved back through the stacks. "The Hall of Prophecies. I wonder whether it's going to be focused on the Ministry. Or if we'll see any of the Undesirable characters again—"

"Granger, just read the bloody book."

She spun to him. He lifted a brow, grinning at her as he followed her down the steps from the landing. She blushed and picked up the manuscript with gentle fingers. Her eyes caught on the books spread across the table.

"Later. We should work. You mentioned that you'd found something on Tolbrette's journal?"

"Not later. Now," he said. Her eyes slid to him. "You can miss a day of research. It's your birthday."

Her mouth opened and closed before she settled on a smile. "It is. Thank you."

He jerked his head toward the exit. "Go read. I'll have Mippy bring lunch to your room. She made pumpkin soup for you."

Reaching up on her toes, she kissed his cheek before he could stop her. She raced to her room with the memory of the blush on his cheek where her lips had been.

Draco's lips dropped kisses against her neck, his hand tracing circles on her knee as her eyes read the same sentence for the sixth time.

Something about Jeremiah Jones and his brother.

She should have known from the moment that he joined her on the loveseat, innocently flipping pages in a textbook, that she wasn't going to get any work done this afternoon.

They'd made progress over the last three days, identifying seven clusters of characters and six ancient runic languages Jones had borrowed from. They were still looking for the source of the seventh cluster.

But usually after lunch, Draco would decide he'd had enough studying.

He sucked the soft skin below her jaw, and her eyes fluttered shut.

"Anything interesting, Granger?" he hummed into her throat.

"Huh?" Her fingers curled into the cover of her book. "Um, just that… Jones's brother disapproved of his views. But there's nothing about his travels, or where else he might have—"

"What a shame." His hand slid up her thigh, warm against her skin.

Hermione had chosen to wear the shorts again today. Yesterday she'd worn one of the tighter, lower-cut tops in her new wardrobe, and it had taken Draco thirty minutes of "reading" before he'd ripped the book from her hands and set her on the edge of the table, his hips slotting between her legs as his lips devoured her.

The day before, he'd been fascinated with the Muggle denims she wore, but she supposed that had something to do with all the excuses she'd found to bend for books on bottom shelves. She'd found herself with Draco Malfoy's hands on her arse as he pushed her back against the stacks, kissing her fiercely.

But today she'd chosen the shorts again. And the way his eyes had dropped to her legs when she entered the library had been worth it. But now, as his fingers rubbed circles into her inner thigh, his lips nipping against her throat, she thought maybe she was the one being seduced.

The productive parts of their day seemed to be getting shorter and shorter. "Draco—"

His mouth latched onto the dip below her jaw — his favorite spot. She'd been covering the bruises every day, and it seemed he was making it his mission to keep them there. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she sighed. The Tolbrette journal dropped to the floor with a thud.

Draco's own book snapped shut, and then his hands were twisting her on the couch, coaxing her to recline against the armrest. His lips never left her neck as the hand between her legs rose higher and higher, his other palm running over her waist.

He hovered over her, catching her lips and kissing her deeply as his fingers reached the hem of her shorts. She moaned low in her throat and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Draco slipped his palm under her lower back, pressing her close.

They should be working. She should insist that they set some kind of boundaries, no snogging before three—

His fingers slipped to the hemline of her shorts, and her mind went blank as he played with the material. Like he knew she'd worn them to test him. He teased the skin there, rubbing slow circles and inching under the fabric. His tongue dove into her mouth, dragging sighs from her chest.

He released her lips, and she murmured his name, searching for him. When he wouldn't kiss her again, her eyes flickered open, and she saw him staring down at her.

His fingers slid an inch under her shorts. "Can I?"

She tightened her arms around his shoulders and nodded. He pressed their foreheads together and watched her face as he nudged one of her thighs open.

A pop! from a foot away.

As she knew it would. As it had every day since her birthday whenever their snogging escalated.

"Master is excusing Boppy, but—!"

"Go. Away," Draco gritted out, screwing his eyes shut.

Boppy gave a pitiful whine. "But—but—!"

"Boppy, I swear to Merlin—"

Hermione giggled. The expression on Draco's face was achingly familiar. Like he'd been beaten to the Snitch or watched Crabbe steal his last treacle tart at dinner.

She was beyond embarrassment at this point. Two days ago, Draco's knee had just slipped between her thighs when Plumb popped in with tea service, two hours early. Yesterday, as she'd sat on the table with Draco standing between her legs, she got as far as running her hands up under his shirt as he palmed her breasts over her top. But just as he'd leaned her backwards across the table, Remmy appeared to list the dinner menu for Draco's approval.

"But Boppy comes to say that Master Lucius is home, and is wanting a word—"

Draco's eyes flew open. The heat that had been boiling inside of her abruptly disappeared.

His throat bobbed as he stared down at her. "Tell my father I'll be there in thirty minutes—"

"Not with Master Draco! With Miss Hermione!"

They both whipped their heads to look at Boppy, who was dancing from foot to foot anxiously. Draco pulled away.

"Regarding what?"

"Master didn't say!" Boppy squeaked. "Master says to fetch Miss Hermione for talking."

Her mouth went dry. Hermione extricated her legs from underneath him, standing and smoothing down her clothes. Draco stood swiftly, straightening his clothes as well, and stepped slightly in front of her before gesturing for Boppy to lead the way.

Boppy wrung his hands. "Master says only Miss Hermione."

She felt Draco simmering in front of her. He opened his mouth to snap at his elf, but she placed her hand on his elbow. "It's alright." She moved around him and looked up into his eyes. "I'll be back shortly."

He sighed an aggravated breath, and his jaw slowly relaxed. Hermione squeezed his arm and followed Boppy out the library doors. Her mind started spinning about Switzerland, and Naricssa, and why Lucius would first ask to see her after being gone for almost two weeks—

She blinked, trying to suppress her thoughts. It was harder than usual this time. She'd been neglecting her Occlumency practice lately, too distracted by Draco and their research.

The small elf shuffled down the hallway in front of her, and Hermione was surprised to see they were headed to the kitchens. Boppy led her down the short set of steps, and gestured for her to duck under the tiny doorway and into the kitchen before he popped away.

Lucius Malfoy towered over the elves chopping vegetables at their tables, his head almost scraping the ceiling as he peered down at a long scroll of parchment that looked like a menu for the week. Remmy stood next to him on a stool, waiting for instructions or notes. He said nothing as Hermione paused awkwardly in the doorway. He was wearing a thin-rimmed pair of glasses, and the sight of them might have made Hermione giggle if she wasn't so nervous.

"Miss Granger," he said, whipping the glasses off his nose. He studied her briefly, letting his narrowed eyes drop to her bare legs. "I see you're still having trouble fully clothing yourself."

Her cheeks flushed. Remmy jutted her chin up in approval.

"Since this appears to be a… difficult order for you to follow, one might hope you would at least take necessary precautions." He paused delicately. "However, my wife tells me that you declined a Contraceptive Potion."

Hermione blinked at him. The chopping knives ceased. Even Remmy seemed surprised, before turning to glare at her like she was an idiot.

"The elves will be stocking your cabinets with the potion tonight. Each dose is effective for exactly thirty days."

Outrage began prickling through her shock. She opened her mouth to defend herself.

"Let me be very clear, Miss Granger. I expect you to drink it whether or not you are currently having intercourse with my son." He looked back down at the week's menu, scribbled his name with a quill, and handed it to Remmy with a careless flourish. "If you still refuse, the elves are under instruction to dose your meals with it."

Hermione narrowed her eyes, fury licking her veins. "Assuming I ignore your wildly invasive accusation that I'm—I'm—"

"Having sex with my son," he offered.

"—might I ask what Draco's contraceptive responsibility is in all this?"

Lucius lifted a cool brow. "He has already been given instructions and is blatantly disobeying them. I'm afraid I don't trust him to remember the Contraception Charm every time you two happen to find yourselves alone."

Hermione's ears burned. Lucius smirked at her before glancing at the elves to his right, who quickly resumed their chopping.

"My wife is opposed to my more... stringent suggestions, so my compromise was to come to you first. You cannot become pregnant."

Something strange bubbled through her, closing her throat. "Of course, Mr. Malfoy." She felt her eye twitch. "I would hate for a Mudblood to sully your pristine family line."

His lips twisted in a grin that didn't reach his eyes. He stepped toward her, and she fought the urge to retreat.

"Am I correct to assume you are acquainted with Miss Mortensen, Adrian Pucey's Lot?" He tilted his head at her, and she blinked and nodded slowly. "The imbeciles who examined her before the Auction decided to spare her from full sterilization, just as they did with you. She became pregnant." He tapped his fingers on the table, watching her. Hermione swallowed as blood pounded in her ears. "Miss Mortensen is a Muggleborn. Per our new laws, the fetus was removed. I'm told she was fully conscious and forced to watch. Dolohov himself did the honors."

Bile rose in Hermione's throat. Lucius took a deep breath.

"You are under far more scrutiny than Miss Mortensen. In part due to your connection to Harry Potter"—his lip curled—"and in part due to the foolish choices of my son. Hiding you away for nine months would be nigh impossible. If you were to become pregnant, we couldn't protect the child. And I will do everything in my power to prevent inflicting that kind of pain on my son. And my wife."

Hermione felt a spreading numbness splintering out from her chest, running down her arms and into her fingertips.

"So," Lucius said, standing tall and seeming to brush away the conversation like lint from his cloak. "You will take the potion. Is that clear?"

Her stubborn streak begged her to demand whether he'd said anything against those laws. Or whether he'd simply helped spread them. In Switzerland, Romania, and all the other places he'd disappeared to on Voldemort's orders.

But her rational mind knew he was right. She didn't want a child. Not like this.

As she nodded slowly, she wondered if Lucius would mourn the loss of an unborn, half-blood grandchild in the same way he thought his wife and son would. Or if his pure-blood ideologies would prevent him from thinking of a potential pregnancy as anything other than a disgraceful inconvenience.

He examined her, seemingly satisfied that his demands had sunk in. "Come with me."

Hermione's eyes widened as Lucius swept toward the small doorway, ducking smoothly with a practiced ease, and paused just outside the threshold.

"I won't ask twice, Miss Granger."

She stumbled to follow him, her mind reeling. He moved through the corridor quickly, not bothering to spare her a backward glance. He finally stopped at a window overlooking the gardens.

"We have eleven elves in total at Malfoy Manor," he said conversationally, once she joined him at the window. "Four kitchen elves for feasts. When the size of the family is small and there are no extravagant feasts, Tom-Tom and Havy double as tidy elves, along with Boppy, Yipper, and Caf. Yipper is our youngest; he is Boppy's son." He pointed out the window. "Hix, there, is our head grounds elf. He works alongside Jot and Mck. You may never catch sight of Mck. He's terribly shy. Mippy, as you know, is something of a personal elf to my wife."

Hermione turned her gaze on Lucius, astounded. He was still moving pieces on his chessboard, ten paces ahead of her. "Why are you telling me this?"

He kept his eyes out the window. "You like elves, do you not?"

"I—"

He spun away from the window and moved briskly down the corridor. "Do you know where the elves sleep, Miss Granger?"

She huffed and jogged to keep up with him. "No, but I still don't understand—"

"No one but the elves can find their bedrooms." He stopped in front of a tapestry and waited for her to catch up.

Hermione gaped at him. "Why?"

"The Manor has many secrets. Some are known to the immediate family, some only by me. Others are still yet to be revealed, if and when the Manor deems it prudent."

"But why are you telling me?"

"Do you know the artist of this piece, Miss Granger?" He gestured to the tapestry, ignoring her question.

She blinked at him. "No?"

"The Manor has a vast collection of art and antiques." He eyed her coolly. "Though not all of the furniture is treated with the respect it deserves."

She blushed.

She spent the next twenty minutes in a slow walk back to the library as Lucius Malfoy led her through the Manor, pointing out family heirlooms, the architecture, even hidden corridors. Hermione felt a bit dizzy, her mind still trying to suss out his game. Perhaps forcing her to be his captive audience was some way of demonstrating control over her.

They stopped at the library doors. Lucius folded his hands behind his back and spun to face her. "And what, pray tell, are you researching so diligently these days, Miss Granger?"

Her heart pounded in its ribcage. If he knew, he'd certainly put a stop to it.

She cleared her throat, and closed the books in her mind. "I found a scroll that I believe was written by one of the earliest magical communities in Egypt. I've dated it around the 8th century B.C., but I won't know for certain until I can translate it."

Lucius raised a brow. Her heartbeat quickened.

"I know it sounds silly, but Ancient Runes was one of my favorite subjects, and it's… it's nice to have some normalcy." She trailed off, blinking. Thinking about her old classes brought a genuine lump to her throat. "And this would be an incredible contribution if I succeed. It might even be from one of the lost cities—"

"Fascinating." His voice was thick with sarcasm. "And might I ask why my son is so eager to help with this little project?"

"I asked him," said Hermione quickly. "He's a good study partner." She flushed in spite of herself. "We may get distracted at times, but we've made significant progress."

Lucius slowly curled his lips. "Very well. Do remember to take that Potion, Miss Granger." He turned on his heel and left her at the doorway.

Hermione stared after him. There was no way to know whether he'd bought it — only time would tell. She sighed heavily and pushed through the library doors.

Draco's head snapped up from where he loomed over their research table. He didn't so much as blink as she made her way over to meet him. "Well?"

She shrugged. "I don't know where to begin. The whole thing was just… odd, really."

Relief flickered in his eyes. He moved quickly around the table and placed his hands on her hips. "Start at the beginning."

She rose to her toes to place a kiss against his lips. His hands slid up to her waist, and he kissed her slowly before pulling away. "What did my father want," he whispered.

And suddenly, the idea of telling Draco that she would soon be on a Contraceptive Potion was ten times as embarrassing as any discussion she'd had with Lucius or Narcissa. She felt a blush spreading across her cheekbones, and decided that with her body pressed to his — with his hands rubbing sensuous circles on her waist — it wasn't the time to mention sex.

"He… he wanted to introduce me to the house-elves. And bore me with knowledge of the portrait curation in the west wing." She laughed.

Draco's brows furrowed. "Really?"

"Really. I think it was just an excuse to nag me about us snogging on his chaise. Oh, and he asked what we were studying."

"Maybe he was trying to distract you." Draco looked over at the door, as if he could suss out his father's intentions. "What did you tell him?"

"That you're helping me translate an ancient Egyptian scroll. Speaking of distractions," Hermione said, sliding out of his embrace and turning to the books. "I'd like to get some things done today."

He leaned over her, pressing his front to her backside and reaching for a book in the center of the table. "How am I supposed to get anything done when you're wearing these shorts," he whispered.

She shivered and suppressed a grin. "You could always transfigure them into something less distracting."

His lips ran over her ear as he murmured, "Not a chance."

~*~

Having Lucius home had renewed Hermione's sense of urgency. There was no guarantee he wouldn't storm in at any moment and shut their research down in the blink of an eye. The thought terrified her.

Lucius had been unable to attend dinner last night, so Hermione and Draco had worked late into the night — truly working. Draco had been particularly grumpy when they finally turned in, but agreed to meet her at eight o'clock the next morning nonetheless.

Two hours into their morning, Hermione was curled up next to him on the loveseat, halfway finished with skimming her eighth book, and still no closer to finding the language source of the seventh cluster of runes.

She shifted and leaned forward, taking a long sip of coffee. Her stomach twisted with anxiety. There had to be a shortcut. Even if she did locate the source, they were still looking at months, if not years, to translate a single journal. The Order didn't have that luxury.

She pressed her lips together and set down her coffee cup. "How is Theo?"

Draco looked up from the translation he had been working on for the past week — still on the first paragraph of a Scourer journal — and rubbed his eyes in a bleary, kittenish way that made her stomach flip.

"You'll remember," his deep voice grumbled, "that I don't give a fuck about Theo. How am I supposed to know?"

Hermione closed her book and turned to face him. There was no point in being coy. "I need to speak with him."

He finished his yawn, ending in an indulgent stretch. "No."

"Draco, you know as well as I do that we're moving far too slowly. At this rate…" She shook her head. "I know he knows something. I can feel it—"

"What do you want to know?" he said lazily, breaking off a corner of a biscuit. "I'll ask."

"And why would he tell you anything? You're terrible to him."

He scowled. "I take it you still think you can seduce the information out of him?"

She sighed heavily. "I think he needs flattery. A chance to brag. He sees you as a rival, and there's no way he'll—"

Draco abruptly stood, tossing his parchment on the cushion. "It's far too early in the morning for you to be psychoanalyzing my friendships, Granger—"

"It's half-past ten!"

"And how late did you keep me up last night?"

"Tomorrow night at Edinburgh is the perfect opportunity. Flint won't be there. I just need five minutes—"

He cracked his neck and took a few steps away. "I'm not going to leave you alone in a booth with him—"

"I'm not asking you to!" She scrambled to her feet. "What about a Trade for the Lounge." It was a term she'd heard thrown around once or twice. By now she could guess what it meant. "Just the couches, not the booths."

Draco glared at her.

"Hear me out," she said, approaching him carefully. "Theo has just taken the Mark. He's working closely with his father and loves bragging about it to anyone who will listen. I think I could easily sway conversation toward the tattoos."

"You really don't think he'd see through you?"

Hermione lifted a brow. "With a bit of alcohol? No. Besides, I think he's been lacking an opportunity to talk about himself. For years, possibly."

"How kind of you to take an interest in him." He sneered and dragged a hand over his face. "I cannot just make you available for Trades and Shares. Word would spread—"

"What about a one-time bet?" She took another step closer. "Perhaps another card game? You could wager a Trade for the Lounge."

Draco rolled his eyes. "And you think Theo will win?"

"He doesn't have to. You just need to lose." She watched him frown and let his eyes drift out the window, as if searching for more reasons to say no. An idea sparked, and her heart quickened as she closed the distance between them. "You're clearly the best card player there. I have no doubt you can twist the game however you see fit."

His eyes flickered down at her.

"I saw it the last time you played cards with them," she hummed, sliding her hands around his neck. "Did you play cards a lot in the dormitories?"

"A bit, yeah." His throat bobbed.

"You probably won a lot of bets." Her lips tilted up to his jaw, and his arms slid around her waist. "What was the best hand you ever played?"

He cleared his throat. "There was a tournament fifth year—" He went still as stone beneath her hands. "Granger, are you seducing me?"

She grinned. "I was. Did it work?"

He pushed her away, running a hand through his hair. "You're an amateur. There's no way Theo will fall for that."

She gasped and hit his shoulder. "An amateur? I had you!"

Draco jerked away and strode to the table. He leaned back on it, glowering at her. Hermione frowned. Apparently she'd misfired.

"Draco, I have to follow this lead. Do you really want to sit in this library translating those symbols for the next two years?" She watched him deflate. "There has to be a better way. Any information Theo could give us might help." Slowly, cautiously, she approached him. "I know you can do your part, and I'll do mine." She bit her lip. "Please."

Something flickered in the grey. He crossed his arms and clenched his jaw. "If this idea works — if he loses, and we do a Trade…" His eyes hardened. "No kissing."

She blinked at him. "No. No, of course not."

"Not on the mouth, not on the face," he continued, like he had a list written up somewhere. "No groping, no skin-to-skin contact—"

"That might be a little extreme—"

"I don't want his hands on your body."

Hermione stared at him, watching a pink blush color his cheeks. Apparently his rivalry with Theo ran deeper than she'd thought. She nodded her acceptance, and the tension in his shoulders relaxed. His gaze flickered down to her lips, and he reached for her arm to drag her closer.

She let herself be pulled between his legs, his hands dipping low on her waist to run over her hips and round her backside with a squeeze.

"So, what's the plan?" she asked breathlessly.

"Blaise."

"Blaise?" She tilted her chin to look up at him,

"He's a shit Legilimens, but he'll do the trick."

Hermione thought of what Pansy had told her. How Blaise had moaned about Draco getting himself killed. "I'm sure he'll love that."

"Mmm." He pressed his lips softly against hers. "Now, tell me again how good I am at cards."

She smiled up at him, and they kissed each other until Plumb popped in to ask if they wanted more tea.

~*~

By Friday afternoon, Pansy had delivered a silky black dress that slithered down her thighs and cut low across her back. It had a modest neckline, almost up to her collarbones, but the tag on the hanger in Pansy's scrawl read, Wear braless. There was also a tube of red lipstick.

Hermione rolled her eyes, put on her bra, and slipped the dress over her shoulders.

Of course, the bra was glaringly visible across her back. There was no hiding it. She didn't know of a spell to fix it, and there was no way she was going to ask Draco.

She removed the bra and stared at herself. The silk clung to her body, her nipples pebbling under the cold fabric. The curve of her breasts and the point of her nipples stood out perfectly under the silk.

She huffed and went to do her makeup and hair carefully, like Pansy had taught her, certain that Draco would not stand for this dress once he saw it.

~*~

When Draco saw her in the dress, he had very little to say. In fact, he looked like his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth.

She felt the weight of his gaze on her as she descended the staircase in her heels and gold collar. When she reached the bottom, he escorted her out with a hand on her bare back, and the warmth of his palm sent goose pimples over her skin.

But she needed to focus. She had a mission this evening. And she and Draco couldn't act like anything had changed between them. For all the world knew, he had been pushing her against library stacks and grinding his body against hers for weeks.

(As he pushed his tongue into her mouth with a moan. And sought her eyes whenever she started to move her hips back against him—)

The burst of wind whipping around them as they stepped out of the Manor doors made her shiver, and his hand pressed more firmly to her back as they moved down the drive.

She looked up at him as they approached the iron gates. "So you and Blaise are ready, then?"

"I'm not concerned. We used to read Theo's mind in school. Take the piss out of him for his fantasies."

"Is that what you told Blaise, then? That you just want to mess with him again?" Draco hesitated, and she froze just as the gate opened. "What did you tell him, Draco?"

He ran a hand through his hair. "I… told him some of it, Granger."

A sharp wariness spiked through her veins. "Draco—"

"It's fine." He grabbed her arm and dragged her through the barrier, and before she could scold him, they were Disapparating to arrive on the cobblestones outside Edinburgh.

He walked her through the stone entrance and up the stairs to the courtyard. Hermione barely had a moment to blink at Charlotte before Draco took her elbow and began dragging her through the Great Hall. His jaw was tight and his strides longer than usual, seemingly wanting nothing to do with the other guests. Hermione tried to glance around as he hurried her through, but they were moving so quickly she couldn't single out any new guests. She did catch a glance of Dolohov and Yaxley schmoozing a pair of stiff and pale-faced men she hadn't seen before.

Draco tugged her up the stairs and into the dining room. Her eyes landed on Theo, who was kissing the neck of the same dark-haired Carrow girl from weeks ago. Blaise lounged at the head of the table, where Flint usually sat. As the boys greeted Draco, Pansy gave her a cool, approving look through Giuliana's eyes.

"Get a promotion, Blaise?" Draco lilted.

Blaise took a dramatic sip from his tumbler. "Heard Flint couldn't be here tonight, so I took advantage. The early bird and all that."

"What a shame." Draco moved to the other head of the table, tugging her into his lap.

The silk of her dress bunched around her hips, and she tugged it down while situating herself.

She had become far more comfortable in Draco's lap since their last visit. She fought the blush rising in her cheeks, thinking of just how comfortable she was as his arm wrapped around her waist, his hand sliding along the silk barely covering her back.

Certain formalities had started disappearing at the Edinburgh dinners. The girls no longer stood by the wall. Instead, there was a relaxed socializing — girls instantly plopping into laps, eating freely. Her eyes flickered to Mortensen, who was accepting fruit from Pucey's fingers with a grimace, and to Susan, who was still wrapped tightly in Goyle's embrace. Theo's Carrow Girl was leaning over to pour herself a glass of wine and giggling with another Carrow Girl on Bletchley's lap.

Once they were settled, Draco's voice rose above the rest: "Anyone fancy a card game tonight?" He waved a hand, and the box with the cards and dice appeared. The boys cheered and slapped the table.

"You ready to give away your secrets tonight, Draco?" Montague jeered.

"We'll see, Graham. Try coming up with something worth knowing this time."

Hermione twisted on Draco's lap to watch the whole table. Draco dealt the cards, sliding them magically across the table to each player. The game started with the seat to the right of the dealer, so Higgs rolled the dice and the game began.

After two rounds, Goyle was out, happy to suck on Susan's neck without interruptions. Blaise folded early, complaining about his cards. Hermione watched him through her lashes, and caught the occasional lingering glance with Draco. A subtle tilt of his head or drum of his fingers. The first round of wagers began, and when Bletchley lost in the next round, he revealed what he'd overheard from a guard at Hogwarts.

"I know the biggest thorn in Umbridge's side. The bloody house-elves," he announced, to sounds of laughter and disbelief. "Slow to answer summons, serving dreadful food. Just disobeying everything."

Draco reached for his wine glass and said, "Maybe Granger here had the right idea trying to free the lot of them."

The table laughed, and she pressed her lips together as Draco started dealing the next round. She noticed that Blaise was spending more time holding Theo's eye.

Theo lost the next round. They learned that Yaxley and Dolohov were entertaining Belgian dignitaries tonight, working on gaining their allegiance to the Dark Lord.

Soon they'd have France surrounded on all sides.

Hermione nibbled on a slice of cheese to keep her stomach at bay.

Finally the round came where Draco started bluffing. She wouldn't have known from his cards, but she could feel the slightest of taps from his right foot. Montague, Warrington, Higgs, and Bletchley all folded. Blaise kept raising with him, but when Pucey and Derrick folded, Blaise followed. It was just Theo and Draco.

"I'll wager a bit about Switzerland," Draco announced.

"Everyone knows your aunt is fucking that up," said Pucey with a snort. "Is it anything we don't know?"

"I'd say so." Draco ran his thumb across her bare back. "I'd like to know how poorly Ted Nott is doing in breaking the French Apparition Line. He's been chained there for — what, two months now?"

"He still comes home," Theo snapped. "Just this week actually—" His cheeks heated instantly. "I can't share sensitive details about his mission."

"Oh?" Draco shrugged and sipped his wine. "Then I assume your cards aren't great."

The boys tittered as Theo glared at him. "Your secret is shit, too. Why would I bet against you?"

"You really shouldn't."

"Oi, Draco!" Blaise called out. "If you really want to know about the Apparition Line, you should give Theo a taste of Granger, like Flint got."

Draco sneered at him. "Not happening."

"Live a little, mate. You're stricter than Umbridge." The table howled. "What about a Lap Warmer? Maybe Cassandra and Granger could swap for a night in the Lounge." Blaise winked. "You could keep it mild, of course."

Hermione swallowed, turning to look up at Draco. Anger radiated from him as he scowled at Blaise. He was an excellent actor, truly.

The boys were banging the table, egging him on. Draco waved them off.

"I guess your cards aren't that good, huh, Draco?" Blaise wrapped his arms around Giuliana's waist, and Hermione found Pansy's eyes watching her.

"I have a great hand."

Blaise leaned forward. "Then prove it."

A thick silence. After several long moments, Draco sighed. "Fine."

The table erupted. Theo looked a bit shocked, but quickly recovered. "A Lap Warming Trade it is," he said. "Alright with you, love?" His girl laughed, tossing her hair over her shoulder. Hermione sipped her wine.

"No kissing on the mouth," said Draco sharply. "Or touching under her clothes." The boys groaned, and Theo grinned. "Those are my terms. I'm taking her when we get home, and I'd rather not have to wash her mouth out first."

"Fine." Theo scooped up the dice and let the girl blow on his fingertips before he rolled. They called the cards. And Draco's hand lost — just barely.

The boys cheered and jumped up on their chairs, shaking Theo's shoulders and toasting glasses. Draco cursed.

She could hardly believe how well their plan had worked even as she was dragged off Draco's lap and tossed into Theo's arms. He cracked a grin at her, victory dawning on him, and slipped his arm around her waist.

They made their way down the Lounge, the boys jostling Draco and offering fake condolences.

"I'll keep her warm for you, Draco," said Theo, smirking as they passed.

Hermione looked back at Draco, and found Theo's girl slipping her hand around his elbow, batting her lashes. She tore her eyes away.

They entered the Lounge, Theo striding over to the armchair Draco usually sat in with her and pulling her into his lap. Blaise and Pansy took the adjacent couch, with Pucey and Mortensen at the opposite end, and she watched as Draco sat across from her and Theo, tugging the girl into his lap. The girl shimmied, moving closer.

Theo's fingers skated across her back, and Hermione jumped, remembering herself. "Champagne?"

Hermione smiled and nodded, tilting her head back as he tilted the glass to her lips. She could use a bit of liquid courage.

"Easy, Granger," Theo chuckled, snapping his fingers at a nearby Carrow Girl for another glass. "Since when do you drink so much?"

Hermione pouted. "Since when do you gamble so much?"

"Still feisty, I see." He took a long dreg, looking over her shoulder. "Want to get a bit more comfortable?"

The music buzzed through her ears, and she swallowed. "Of course. How should I—?"

His free hand dropped to her thigh. "Why don't you turn to face me."

She took a deep breath and shifted, preparing to straddle him. She wouldn't let herself think about how her dress was riding up her backside, now directly in Draco's eyeline.

A trilling laugh as she moved. She glanced over her shoulder and caught a glimpse of silky hair bent over a fringe of blonde. The Carrow Girl was straddling Draco, too.

She turned back to Theo and slipped her arms around her neck. "Do you often win at cards?" she purred.

He looked at her, as if suddenly remembering she was there. "Uh, yes." His chest puffed. "I like strategy, that sort of thing."

Oh this was going to be easy.

"Mmm." She leaned closer in his ear. "What kind of strategy?"

She spent the next fifteen minutes listening to Theo talk about Wizard's Chess and Quidditch betting. His hands were resting on her hips, occasionally skating across her bare back, but she couldn't shake the feeling that his touches were perfunctory. Once, she hesitantly tried moving her hips to the beat of the music, but he gave her an odd look that stopped her in her tracks. So she decided to up her game by increasing her flattery. She could see it land on him, with one boyish grin after another.

"You were always smart in school, too." She tucked her hair behind her ear. "Do you help your father a lot with his missions? I hear he's always working on terribly difficult projects."

"Yeah, a bit." Theo shifted to reach for his glass, wrapping his arm around her back to steady her. "I've been shadowing him. More than Malfoy's allowed, I bet."

Hermione laughed, turning to look at Draco, and found his eyes glaring daggers at Theo's hand on her back. The girl redirected his attention to her, rubbing his shoulders. Hermione scowled and turned back to Theo.

"Your father must really trust your skills then," she said, running her hands over his shoulders.

"Yeah. Yeah, he does." He sipped his champagne.

"Is the library at Nott Manor as grand as Malfoy Manor's?"

"It's just as stocked and almost the same size." He sneered. "You know, the only reason people wank over Malfoy Manor is the peacocks. Our acreage is just the same. I've checked."

"I can only imagine." Hermione bit her lip. "I wish I could see it someday, but"—she raised her left arm and gave a helpless shrug.

Theo hummed, simply watching her.

"They really are a brilliant bit of magic, you know," she continued lightly. "The tattoos. I've never seen anything like them."

"They are." Theo smirked. "It's very dark magic, Granger. You wouldn't have read about it at Hogwarts."

"No, I doubt that I would." A giggle caught her ear, and she glanced over her shoulder to find Draco whispering in the girl's ear, twisting a lock of hair around his finger. Her chest boiled. She quickly looked back to Theo. "What do you know about them?"

The effect was instantaneous. Theo's body stiffened under her. His gaze zipped to Draco and then back to her, his lips curling. He abruptly pushed her to her feet.

"Well, this has been fun," he sneered. "But I think I'll take my leave." He turned to Draco. "Thanks for the Trade. Her arse is divine."

Hermione blinked at his retreating back. He was onto them. She'd failed. Before she could spiral further, Draco was beside her, reaching for her arm.

"It's time for us to retire as well." He turned to say goodnight to his friends, his arrogant mask still in place.

Dread prickled through her shock as Draco swept them from the room. If Theo was onto them, things could get bad. Very bad. Draco would never let her run her own missions ever again. Perhaps they should Obliviate him—

Draco's grip was tight on her arm as he moved them to the fireplaces. She swallowed and whispered, "Should we go after him?"

"You've done enough for one night, Granger," he bit out.

She glanced up at him, expecting his anger — and her eyes fell on a lipstick stain on his collar. From the Carrow Girl. She saw red as they swept through the Floo.

They arrived through the fireplace in his room, and he dropped her arm and spun to her. "Well, was it worth it?"

"I don't want to hear it, Draco!" She kicked off her heels and tore her collar off. "I was this close, and I would have gotten something out of them if your girl hadn't been as loud as a banshee. If we arrange another Trade—"

"Not a fucking chance," he growled. "I have to clean up this mess, like I always knew I would—"

"Oh, thank you for the vote of confidence!" She threw her arms in the air. "I knew you never trusted me—"

"You should have stuck to talking. Trying to kiss his neck and play with his hair like some fucking—"

"Oh, I'm sorry I don't have as much experience charming the knickers off of people like you do, Draco—"

He stepped into her and pointed a finger in her face. "You had plenty of time, but instead you spent the entire night grinding all over him—"

She slapped his hand away. "I couldn't start with a damn interrogation, could I? Last time I checked you were busy running your hands all over Clara—"

"Cassandra," he corrected. And she felt her skin light on fire.

"Oh, Cassandra," she hissed. "Of course. So glad you had a chance to learn her name while you were pawing her!"

He stepped into her, crowding her against the wall. "Well, maybe if you had spent less time purring in his ear and letting his hands grope your ass—"

"I did no such thing—"

"—then we wouldn't be in this situation—"

"I was close to winning him over, and it's your fault we were interrupted! Maybe you can invite him by the Manor so I can finish the job—"

He gripped her upper arms, pressing her to the wall. "You're not going within a mile of him ever again." His eyes flashed, and she felt his breath on her face.

"If you even look at that girl again, I'll—"

He kissed her, fierce and biting. Her hands grabbed for his waist, digging her nails into his robes as his tongue pushed into her mouth. She fought him back, gasping and diving between his lips.

Her arms were free for only a moment before his hands slid around her back, dragging her closer. She rose on her toes and threaded her fingers through his hair, using her teeth and tongue to pour her anger into his mouth.

Tearing his lips from hers, he grazed his teeth down her jaw, gasping for air against her neck and sucking sin into her skin. She moaned as his hands slid down over the silk, rucking it up her hips and cupping her backside. There was nothing between her skin and his greedy fingers but the lace of her knickers — something that must have delighted him, because he started kneading his fingers into her cheeks, groaning low in his throat.

She bit the lobe of his ear, and his hips snapped forward, pinning her to the wall, his hands still on her arse. "Fuck." She could feel him hard and heavy on her stomach.

Her body was coiling, searching for something. Something he could give her.

But he paused, ceasing all kneading and grinding. She dragged his face back to hers, kissing his jaw, his cheek, until she found his lips again. He breathed harshly into her mouth, like he was trying to control himself, to hold back.

She didn't want him to.

Her fingers slid across his collar and pried the first button of his shirt open. He pulled his face from her neck, his eyes black as they locked on hers. She licked her lips and popped the second button open. His fingers squeezed her backside again.

He stared down at her, eyes curious and on fire. Studying her.

The jealousy that had fueled her seconds ago calmed, and she suddenly felt very aware of his body against hers, the closeness of his fingers to her core. He was asking her, waiting for her to tell him what she wanted.

She bit her lip, and when she popped the next button, his breath caught, eyes flickering. She blushed. "Maybe not—not everything, but… more?"

He nodded, mouth parted in awe, and bent to kiss her again. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pressing her chest to his. As he kissed her — slower, with a simmering fire — his hands glided around her backside to her hips, following the lace of her knickers. She sighed as his thumbs brushed her bare stomach.

His tongue danced with hers, and his fingers inched upward, skating toward her ribs. Her thighs pressed together, aching for his leg between hers, but too afraid to ask. His warm hands sent shivers across her skin, and her breasts pulled into peaks, begging.

The first brush of his fingers on the swell under her breasts had them both moaning. Both hands rounded her outer curves, slipping between them under the silk of her dress. Her knees buckled when his thumbs found her nipples, brushing softly — as if something inside of her had melted and liquified, rushing south.

His thumbs rolled and circled, his mouth moving to her neck, groaning in time with the steady thrusts of his hips against hers. Her breath was ragged, panting quickly and gasping his name without her permission.

Firmer strokes from his thumbs. Her breasts filling his fingers. Harder pumps of his hips.

The entire world could burst in on them now, and she would ignore it. She needed this. He needed this.

Her arms slid from his neck to his belt. He cursed into her neck when she unbuckled him, pulling his face back to press their foreheads together.

"Granger…" Her shaking fingers unbuttoned him. He paused. "You don't—"

She grabbed his retreating hand and dragged it back to her breast. "Don't stop."

His pupils were bottomless, eyes glazing over as he palmed her. His other hand gripped her hip, and she continued to pull his buttons apart.

"Granger. Fuck."

She slipped her hand between them, not entirely sure what to do, but taking a few educated guesses. When her fingers slipped over his trunks and cupped the bulge of him, his eyes fluttered closed.

"Fuck. Merlin, fuck me."

He grabbed her wrist, holding her hand on himself as his hips jerked against her. She held very still and watched in amazement as Draco Malfoy rode her palm like it was the most exquisite pleasure he'd had in his life.

His lips covered hers, moaning long and low into her throat as he thrust against her and squeezed her breast. She whimpered, throbbing and aching and riding the high of his pleasure.

Just as she wondered if she should be doing more, his body seized, and a sigh poured from his lips. His cock twitched under her hand, and she felt his come seeping through the fabric of his trunks.

She stared wide-eyed at him, her veins singing and her skin vibrating. His eyes were screwed shut, his lips carved in a delicious "o." He slowly caught his breath, and before he even opened his eyes, he was muttering, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…"

He wasn't allowed to run away. Not this time. Not when she was still suspended between his pleasure and hers.

His eyes flew open, and he released her wrist. "I'm sorry—"

"Touch me," she begged. "Please."

His gaze focused. He gaped at her, taking in her eyes, her lips, her heaving chest.

"Draco, please. Don't stop."

His hand left her chest, sliding down to the lace around her hips, dipping to her drenched center.

"Oh fuck," he moaned. He rubbed her just a little. Nowhere near enough.

"Please—"

His fingers slipped beneath the lace. Her hands jumped to his elbows, clutching him as she swayed. He ran a long finger through her soaked folds, and it was so much better than her own. She bit her lip to keep quiet, but when he found her clit, her legs shook and she cried out his name.

She buried her head in his shoulder, knowing her face was twisting and pinching in pained pleasure. His free hand took her chin and guided it back up to him.

"Look at me when you come."

Her eyes fluttered open to find his gaze burning into her. "Please," he mouthed, swirling her clit.

Her eyes rolled back.

"You're a fucking dream, do you know that?"

"Draco—"

He swallowed the words, his mouth hot and sloppy.

He sped up his fingers, testing what worked for her, but it seemed like everything worked for her because she was coiling tighter and tighter to the point where the string inside would snap and shatter her.

She sucked in a tight breath, and Draco pulled back to watch her face.

"Oh god oh god oh god—"

"Come on, Granger. Just like that."

The rhythm of his fingers didn't slow, jerking quickly over her clit, and just as she started to moan she forced her eyes open like he'd asked.

She came with Draco's dark grey gaze burned into hers, memorizing her like he'd never have the chance again. Her body snapped, her fingers tearing at his shirt, her knees buckling as he held her through it.

Her breath was hot against his lips as she gradually steadied herself. She took deep breaths as her legs returned to her, and he carefully kissed her once.

"Has anyone else ever touched you like that?" he whispered. She blinked at him, and he quickly shuttered, remembering himself. "Sorry. That doesn't matter—"

"No," she said hoarsely. "Just you."

Draco swallowed. He slowly removed his hand from her knickers, and held her hips, staring down at her like there was more to say.

Tap, tap, tap.

They both jumped. The rest of the world came back to her in a flash of light and color, unsteadying her.

Draco turned to the window. A beautiful black owl was pecking at the glass.

He glanced at her before moving to open the pane. He grabbed the letter and tossed a treat to the owl before ripping it open.

Blood rushed through her ears as she watched him read, waiting.

"It's from Theo." His mouth pressed in a hard line. "He wants a chat as soon as possible." He looked up at her. "With both of us."

Hermione staggered, the full weight of the night's events returning to her. "Now?" she rasped. "Will we go now?"

He looked her over. She must look a mess if his flushed cheeks and open trousers were any indication. He nodded.

She ran her fingers through her hair, her heart pounding. "Draco, I'm sorry I—"

"I have it under control."

"But—"

"Trust me. Let's go contain this."

She fell silent. He muttered a spell to clean himself up, and when he adjusted his trousers, she was shocked to find him half hard again. Blushing, she quickly turned away to slip on her shoes. She grimaced as soon as she smoothed out her dress. Her knickers felt like they'd been dunked in soapy water.

"Can I…" She cleared her throat. "Could you summon a clean pair of knickers for me?"

He blinked at her, and then his eyes darkened. He flicked his wand, and a pair of black lace knickers appeared on the desk next to her. Turning her back to him, she shimmied out of her old pair and into the black ones. She balled up the dirty pair, unable to meet his eyes. "I'll just… put these in my room—"

His hand shot out, ripping the lace from her fingers and tossing them across his sheets. "I'll take them." He grabbed her arm and led her to the fireplace.

"Oh," she squeaked. "I can wash them myself—"

"I'm not going to wash them, Granger." His voice was low and dangerous, and then he yanked them through the Floo.

A heat flashed through her body, but it was quickly extinguished by apprehension as they stepped through the flames and into a grand hall. The smoke cleared, and she found Oliver Wood leaning to one side, one arm in a sling and his eye purpled and swollen shut.

Hermione gasped.

Oliver nodded, and gestured for them to follow — like a house-elf, sent to retrieve visitors. She blinked, her emotions boiling and tumbling over, struggling to get control.

They followed his limping form to a grand double-doorway. Oliver had always been tall and muscular. She'd never seen him this thin and broken. Anger crowded her chest, suffocating her lungs. She hadn't thought Theo capable of this kind of cruelty.

Oliver led them through the doors and moved to the wall beside the door as Draco and Hermione filed into the sitting room. A stone-faced Theo stood from a large chair, a tumbler of scotch in one hand.

"So," Theo began coolly. "You and your whore want to know more about the tattoos, do you?"

Hermione's breath hitched, and she felt Draco stiffen next to her.

A low scoff. "I have no idea what you're talking about. If she asked you inappropriate questions tonight, I'm happy to discipline her."

"Discipline her," Theo muttered into his glass. "You don't let anyone come within a foot's radius of her, and now you expect me to believe that you accidentally lost her in a bet tonight? I would have written it off if it weren't for her clumsy probing—"

Hermione opened her mouth, but Draco grabbed her wrist.

"And speaking of probing," Theo hissed. "I have a mother of a headache despite not drinking more than a glass or two." He pointed a finger at Draco. "You and Blaise are fucking with me again, aren't you? Like you used to with your fucking mind tricks—"

"Theo, it's two in the morning." Draco let out a long-suffering sigh. “Did you have a point besides these wild accusations?"

"I know you're up to something, Draco. If my father hears that you're asking questions—"

"Fine," Draco cut him off in a bored tone. "You're right. I'm looking into the tattoos." Hermione blinked up at him, stunned. He took a step forward. "But only because I'm having trouble with hers. Last week, her tattoo allowed her outside the boundary with hardly as much as a shock. I'm trying to fix your father's mistake so my 65,000 galleons doesn't run off in the middle of the night."

Theo glared at him. Then he let out a loud snort. "Merlin. You're losing your touch. Haven't heard you lie that poorly since school."

Theo downed his scotch and set the glass on the table. Oliver hobbled across the room to clear it, and Hermione's heart cracked with every stumbling step.

"I was trying to do you a favor by looking into it myself," Draco said coolly. "But if you'd rather I inform the Dark Lord that another one of your father's projects is failing—"

"Are you blackmailing me?" Theo snarled.

Draco smiled, low and cat-like. "That's a rather indelicate word, but I suppose I am. Speaking of blackmail, Cassandra and I had a lovely conversation tonight about what goes on in the booths — or better yet, what happens the next day, when you bribe the guards to bring her home—"

"She wouldn't."

"Amazing the things you can learn with a little truth serum." Hermione whipped her head to look at Draco, and he smirked. "Always get leverage, Granger."

"Wood!" Theo screamed. "Leave us."

There was a cold silence in the room as Hermione tried to recover from the whiplash of the last ten seconds. She watched as Oliver hobbled out and closed the door behind him. Theo and Draco held each other's eyes in a fierce contest.

Theo broke away first. He pursed his lips and took a deep breath, pulling a book from the inside breast pocket of his jacket.

"The only thing I can say for sure," he said quietly, "is that my father was determined to get his hands on every copy of this book after he'd created the tattoos. We traveled all throughout Europe tracking them down and either destroying them or removing sections." He moved closer to them, staring down at the book like it could hurt him. "I was supposed to destroy this one." His eyes locked on Hermione's. "He'll kill me if he finds out I gave it to you."

And in what seemed like slow motion, Theo stretched out his arm and offered her a familiar book with the name Jeremiah Jones on the cover. She gasped and took it from him, flipping through the pages.

It was a complete copy. No torn-out pages. And at the center, thirty or so pages in gold. A key to deciphering the Scourers' code.

"So you know what it is," Theo confirmed. "You know how to use it."

Her eyes snapped up to him, and just as she opened her mouth to thank him, Draco plucked the book from her fingers. He scowled at Theo.

"Why?" he asked.

Theo pressed his lips together and met Draco's gaze. "Granger's going to break these tattoos. You know she is. She's probably the only one who can."

Hermione felt hope spark in her chest, thrumming and burning.

"And when she does..." The lilt of conniving Slytherin shaded his tone as he turned back to her. "You have to promise me you'll get Oliver out."

Her lips parted, sympathy sweeping through her veins.